Lines to a Chrysalis

Musing long I asked me this,
Chrysalis,
Lying helpless in my path,
Obvious to mortal scath
From a careless passer by,
What thy life may signify?
Why, from hope and joy apart,
Thus thou art?

Nature surely did amiss, '
Chrysalis,
When she lavish'd fins and wings
Nerved with nicest moving-springs,
On the mote and madripore,
Wherewithal to swim or soar;
And dispensed so niggardly
Unto thee.

E'en the very worm may kiss,
Chrysalis,
Roses on their topmost stems
Blazon'd with their dewy gems,
And may rock him to and fro
As the zephyrs softly blow;
Whilst thou lyest dark and cold
On the mould.

Quoth the Chrysalis, Sir Bard,
Not so hard
Is my rounded destiny
In the great Economy:
Nay, by humble reason view'd,
There is much for gratitude
In the shaping and upshot
Of my lot.

Though I seem of all things born
Most forlorn,
Most obtuse of soul and sense,
Next of kin to Impotence,
Nay, to Death himself; yet ne'er
Priest or prophet, sage or seer,
May sublimer wisdom teach
Than I preach.

From my pulpit of the sod,
Like a god,
I proclaim this wondrous truth,
Farthest age is nearest youth,
Nearest glory's natal porch,
Where with pale, inverted torch,
Death lights downward to the rest
Of the blest.

Mark yon airy butterfly's
Rainbow-dyes!
Yesterday that shape divine
Was as darkly hearsed as mine;
But to-morrow I shall be
Free and beautiful as she,
And sweep forth on wings of light,
Like a sprite.

Soul of man in crypt of clay!
Bide the day
When thy latent wings shall be
Plumed for immortality,
And with transport marvellous
Cleave their dark sarcophagus,
O'er Elysian fields to soar
Evermore!