photo #302908

We can, laughing, prick a little,And blaming it is not necessary:But this game should not be prolonged;Any prolonged play becomes a business.When the butterfly crosses a garden,Impregnating the flowers of the plants he brushes against,He does not, in the wind of his playful flight,That in passing quiver, bend their corolla;It arises at all so lightly,The perfume he steals is so little,That, by him troubled barely a moment,Still radiate the lily and the rose.But when, to suck the sweetest nectar,The bee plunges into the bottom of a chalice,Slowly spread out and plant his sting,We must fear, alas! ... that the flower perishes!So if you were a bee, we couldPerhaps, between us, scold you, Madame;But you haven't (who would say?)From the winged insect the poignant flame.Like, touching everything and not hurting anything,A dragonfly is playing in the sun,Sporty and laughing, in an interview,Without thinking badly your mind circulates.And yet, in a few words,Your eyes have cried, your heart is alarmed!Ah! for our errors keep the sobs;Your faults are nothing worth a tear.