I Am Always With You
When I am gone, release me, let me go.
I have so many things to see and do,
You mustn't tie yourself to me with too many tears,
But be thankful we had so many good years.
I gave you my love, and you can only guess
How much you've given me in happiness.
I thank you for the love that you have shown,
But now it is time I traveled on alone
So grieve for me a while, if grieve you must
Then let your grief be comforted by trust
That it is only for a while that we must part,
So treasure the memories within your heart.

I won't be far away for life goes on.
And if you need me, call and I will come.
Though you can't see or touch me, I will be near
And if you listen with your heart, you'll hear
All my love around you soft and clear
And then, when you come this way alone,
I'll greet you with a smile and a "Welcome Home".

~~Author Unknown


Don't weep at my grave, for I am not there,
I've a date with a butterfly to dance in the air.
I'll be singing in the sunshine, wild and free,
Playing tag with the wind, while I'm waiting for thee.

~~Author Unknown


Do not stand by my grave and weep
For I am not there.
I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am diamonds that glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush of butterflies in joyous flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there.
I did not die.

~~Author Unknown


Thou spark of life that wavest wings of gold,
Thou songless wanderer mid the songful birds,
With Nature's secrets in thy tints unrolled
Through gorgeous cipher, past the reach of words,
Yet dear to every child
In glad pursuit beguiled,
Living his unspoiled day mid flowers and flocks and herds!

Thou winged blossom, liberated thing,
What secret tie binds thee to other flowers,
Still held within the garden's fostering?
Will they too soar with the completed hours,
Take flight, and be like thee
Irrevocable free,
Hovering at will o'er their parental bowers?

Or is thy lustre drawn from heavenly hues,
A sumptuous drifting fragment of the sky,
Caught when the sunset its last glance imbues
With sudden splendor, and the tree-tops high
Grasp that swift blazonry,
The lend those tints to thee,
On thee to float a few short hours, and die?

Birds have their nests; they rear their eager young,
And flit on errands all the livelong day;
Each fieldmouse keeps the homestad whence it sprung;
But thou art Nature's freeman,--
free to stray Unfettered through the wood,

Seeking thine airy food,
The sweetness spiced on every blossomed spray.

The garden one wide banquet spreads for thee,
O daintiest reveller of the joyous earth!
One drop of honey gives satiety;
A second draught would drug thee past all mirth.
Thy feast no orgy shows;
Thy calm eyes never close,
Thou soberest sprite to which the sun gives birth.

And yet the soul of man upon they wings
Forever soars in aspiration; thou
His emblem of the new career that springs
When death's arrest bids all his spirit bow.
He seeks his hop in thee
Of immortality
Symbol of like, me with such faith endow!

~~Thomas Wentworth Higginson


From cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged -- a summer afternoon --
Repairing everywhere,

Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.

Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,

Where parties, phantom as herself,
To nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As't were a tropic show.

And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,

Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea.

~~Emily Dickinson


My little Madchen found one day
A curious something in her play,
That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed;
It was not anything that grew,
Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew;
Had neither legs nor wings, indeed;
Any yet she was not sure, she said,
Whether it was alive or dead.

She brought it in her tiny hand
To see if I would understand,
And wondered when I made reply,
"You've found a baby butterfly."
"A butterfly is not like this,"
With doubtful look she answered me.
So then I told her what would be
Some day within the chrysalis;
How, slowly, in the dull brown thing
Now still as death, a spotted wing,
And then another, would unfold,
Till from the empty shell would fly
A pretty creature, by and by,
All radiant in blue and gold.

"And will it, truly?" questioned she--
Her laughing lips and eager eyes
All in a sparkle of surprise
"And shall your little Madchen see?"
"She shall!" I said. How could I tell
That ere the worm within its shell
Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread,
My little Madchen would be dead?

Today the butterfly has flown,--
She was not here to see it fly,--
And sorrowing I wonder why
The empty shell is mine alone.
Perhaps the secret lies in this:
I too had found a chrysalis,
And death that robbed me of delight
Was but the radiant creature's flight!

~~Mary Emily Bradley


I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breezes.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been, --alone,

"As all must be," I said within my heart,
"Whether they work togehter or apart."

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flouish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That mad me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

"Men work together," I told him from the heart,
"Whether they work together or apart."

~~Robert Frost


This was your butterfly, you see,
His fine wings made him vain:
The caterpillars crawl, but he
Passed them in rich disdain.
My pretty boy says, "Let him be
only a warm again!"

O child, when things have learned to wear
Sings once, they must be fain
To keep them always high and fair:
Think of the creeping pain
Which even a butterfly must bear
To be a warm again!

~~Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt


A tiny egg placed on a leaf, warmed by the sun, produced
a tiny caterpillar. As it ate the leaf, it grew rapidly, it's outer
skin became hard, and crusty. It would have to shed that
crust to grow any further

One day, miraculously, two silken strands, hardened by the
air, flowed from its head. The strands totally encased the
worm and the branch it was on, it became a silken cocoon.

After a time of incubation, it broke out of the silken case.
And even more miraculously, nature witnessed the second
birthday of the little worm. Behold! The little worm was a
beautiful butterfly!

This is what must happen to you. You were born once, nourished,
and you grew. As we all taste of life too freely, sin forms a
crusty shell around the heart. It has to be shed if you are
to grow any further - spiritually....

But if the seed of God's Word (the Bible) is planted in the
silken fibers of your soft, receptive heart, and it incubates,
something miraculous happens in you - understanding. Then you
will grow in the knowledge of Who and What Jesus Christ is!
Heaven and earth will witness your second birthday, when you
accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior.

Behold! A new spiritual you will emerge - a new creature in
Christ - born again spiritually, by God's Word, to tell others
about this miracle that has happened to you.

Go and be a butterfly!

~~Author Unknown


Are you blue today?
time to meditate and pray
Could it be the winter blahs?
devoid of flowers, oohs and ahhs?

I know what you are feeling
We all need winter healing
So I hope this blue butterfly
Will make you want to fly

Find something that cheers
to stop all your fears
Spring will smile soon
and you'll get out of that room

We all have a choice
and get to use our voice
To whine, cry and moan ME, why?
or see some light and bluer sky

This butterfly flew into my garden
After our first frost

So tired and battered
but flew in earnest at all cost

I was having a bluesy day
but stopped to watch him dance and play
The little fellow lifted my gloom
and for a while I crawled out of my tomb

So today I thought I'd share
and let you know how much I care
You've got such a happy smile
and use it to make others lives worthwhile!

~~Rosemary Basil

Rose is a relative of mine and wrote this poem for ME!!!
Please visit her site and read her other poems. Thank you MS ROSE ;)

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As far as I know, some of these poems are from unknown authors.
Should you know who wrote any of the poems, please contact me.
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