" I found it in a legendary land
My needles have teased out its sculptured sex;
Corroded tissues could no longer hide
that priceless mote now dimpling the convex
and limpid teardrop on a lighter slide.
Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrim kiss,
poems that take a thousand years to die
but ape the immorality of this
red label on a little butterfly.”
(‘On Discovering a Butterfly’ by Vladimir Nabokov)
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