I found, this summer past, here where I stand,
The dainty creature called the bella moth–
Its pink and yellow living contraband
Contrasted with the season’s greening sloth.
Where is it now? This fragile, too-weak thing
Is gifted with a spirit which belies
Its frail appearance, outmanoeuvreing
Our mighty winter many times its size.
For in some icy nook that spirit lives
And sleeps its pupal life below the sod,
Secure, until the summer’s coming gives
It happy life among the goldenrod.
Man’s spirit, too, is first and always free,
And will, in time, emerge triumphantly.
by Ray Romine Tuesday, April 11, 1944
