You are, like Hannah Gould’s King
Papilio, one of those
Indolent lovers of change,
Keeping the body at ease,
Giving fancy permission
To range. Nothing seems awful
In a vast transformation
That doesn’t touch you at all.
It’s not until the bees’ wings
Grow so large they veil the skies,
And you wake to real thunder
And downpour and pelting hail,
That you know no change is kind
To indolence when you’re frail.
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