Butterfly in the Mire

Why do all beautiful things come to a fall?

How has the brimming pond turn to haunted mire?

What once heavenly glow and nature filled choir,

With what hell had boiled and muddied it all?;

That here all butterfly had come to fall;

Who made so that these wings so desired,

Flow through lively gust to sink in boggy fire?

And what God command this call?;

That here the butterfly die and dirty fall?;

What had nature disenchanted and pond an after-pyre?

Who had led the angels from this place, who had played the bewitching lyre?

What had caused the bubbling earth and rancid squall?

Is this the hell for all beauty to come to fall?