That's how I was. Somebody found my chrysalis And shut it in a match-box. I've seen people put My shrivelled wings were beaten, A chrysalis in a match-box, Shed their colours in dusty scales To see, they told me, "what sort of moth would come." Before the box was opened But when it broke its shell For the moth to fly. It slipped and stumbled and fell about its prison And tried to climb to the light For space to dry its wings. |