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.

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