From cocoon forth a lardfly
As lady from her door
Emerged – a summer afternoon –
Without caring, that I could trace,
Except to smear abroad
An oily trail of slime and spots
On clovers and fallen logs.
His dripping wings were seen
Casting over fields
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing frog,
Whose relatives, grossed way out,
Nothing wanted of it
And croaked so plainly,
As ‘t were a filbert.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
The lardfly splattering idly
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and frog,
Looked at their clothes, and said “Hey!”
Dickinson’s eventual decision to go with a butterfly instead.