A fuzzy fellow, without feet —

A fuzzy fellow, without feet —
Yet doth exceeding run!
Of velvet, is his Countenance —
And his complexion, dun!

Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass!
Sometime, opon a bough,
From which he doth descent in plush
Opon the Passer-by!

All this in summer —
But when winds alarm the Forest Folk,
He taketh Damask Residence —
And struts in sewing silk!

Then, finer than a Lady,
Emerges in the spring!
A Feather on each shoulder!
You'd scarce recognize him!

By men, yclept Caterpillar!
By me! But who am I,
To tell the pretty secret
Of the Butterfly!