Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.
All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in that hour:
Mark the transient butterfly,
How he hangs upon the flower.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Suffer me to cherish you Till the dawn is in the sky.
Whether I be false or true,
Death comes in a day or two.
