| This great purple butterfly, |
| In the prison of my hands, |
| Has a learning in his eye |
| Not a poor fool understands. |
| Once he lived a schoolmaster |
| With a stark, denying look; |
| A string of scholars went in fear |
| Of his great birch and his great book. |
| Like the clangour of a bell, |
| Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet, |
| That is how he learnt so well |
| To take the roses for his meat. |