XVIII.

Two butterflies went out at noon
And waltzed into a thrift,
Then stepped straight into the armored vault
And, surprise! The loot could lift.

And then together bore away
Moneybags over seas,—
Though never yet, in any port,
Their coming mentioned be.

If spoken by the distant bird,
If met in ether sea,
By frigate or by merchantman,
Report was not to me,
The traitors.

—

Dickinson’s final, less conspiratorial draft.