Safely stored in memory, poems reappear to strengthen us in times of trouble and take us back to happier days.
When I was little and it was bedtime, my mother used to read/recite a poem to me about all nature's little ones going to bed. My favourite verse began with the butterfly drowsy. I often used to think about the butterfly drowsy. The words were heady with sleep and mystery.
The butterfly drowsy has folded its wing,
The bees are returning, no more the birds sing;
Their labour is over, their nestlings are fed,
It's time little people were going to bed.