The butterfly. . .
has a short life, but is unaware of this. It does not count by hour, but homes on meadows, trees and air; goes, flower-in-flight, to blossoming flower, at ease (no clock or calendar to press it into hurrying), with sunny freedom everywhere; music of motion in each wing. We watch and, as it flutters by, lifting the earth more near the sky, reflect that we might like to try to emulate the butterfly.Skip to next paragraph
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