I am ignorant when it comes to the identity of butterflies. Don't get me wrong: I think that butterflies are lovely. But I don't know their names. Today, while out for a walk, I nearly collided with a creamy white-yellow one that was being blown about in the wind. Was it perhaps a cabbage-white? I wouldn't know. But I like to think it was.
The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has -- who knows so well as I? --
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the aerobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.
Robert Graves, Poems 1926-1930 (1931).
Butterflies are tricky to watch, aren't they? All that flitting and fluttering, all those sudden turns and reversals, are enough to make you dizzy. But Graves is right: flying crooked is a gift (within a destiny).