(A Metamorphosis of the Heart)
Ferdinand S. Panerio+

In mine beginning, I wast but a lowly worm,
Creeping upon the boughs of mortal opinion,
Judged at each meagre movement mine,
“Why art thou thus? Thou err’st yet again.”

When I dared utter words of thought,
Mine breath met queries sharp and cruel—
“Hast thou no wisdom?”
As though all were critics, and none a kindly soul.

When mine heart unfurled its wings of feeling,
“Thy grammar is amiss,” quoth they,
As though the soul must needs be written right,
And love be scorned should letters fall awry.

When silence I embraced for solace’ sake,
They calleth me stone—
Heartless, cold, unfeeling.
Yet I but sought shelter in mine hollowed hush.

Slowly, confusion did cloak me whole,
A silken shroud, a cocoon of selfsame doubt.
There, mine tears did flow in quietude,
And I dared dream of flight, though wings I’d not yet known.

And lo! I am now a butterfly unsteady,
Wings I bear—yet be they dream or verity?
For even in the height of mine ascent, they cry:
“Thou fliest too high... or seek’st thou only notice?”

What is truth, indeed?
At every turning of my soul’s becoming,
A question clings,
And thus, amidst this metamorphosis—
Mine heart remaineth lost.