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.