The tulip and the butterfly Appear in gayer coats than I: Let me be dressed fine as I will, Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.
Among the myrtles the mantids moved, lightly, carefully, swaying slightly, the quintessence of evil. They were lank and green, with chinless faces and monstrous globular eyes, frosty gold, with an expression of intense, predatory madness in them. The crooked arms, with their fringes of sharp teeth, would be raised in mock supplication to the insect world, so humble, so fervent, trembling slightly when a butterfly flew too close.
I would like to think that the singer is the butterfly, and the drummer was just the little grub in the ground, working to become a caterpillar
Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
You turned your head to look at me. Your eyes looked so big in your face, so mysterious — wide and flickering like a butterfly-wing mask. When you saw me the wails turned to sobs, and then just quieter heaves of your body. I held out my finger through the bars. Then you reached out and curled your fingers around mine, so tight. I knew you recognized me. That was the first time I knew I had a heart inside my body.
I'm a social butterfly. Once I get somewhere, I can make myself at ease and start the team bonding and build a relationship with my team, all my teammates, all the coaches, all the coaching staff.
Hour of Stars (1920) The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river.
I wasn't a social butterfly at all.
They say I'm famous for my chip shots. Sure, when I hit 'em right, they land just so, like a butterfly with sore feet.
She was the prettiest, silliest, most affected, husband-hunting butterfly ever.
I'm Serena Williams on the court, but away I have so many different names. I call myself Butterfly.
I'm not a real crazy social butterfly - and once I realised that and I accepted it, I started to realise how many people weren't accepting of that.
I must brave the interior of the most tawdry and literally trumpery tower of them all. . . the Trump Taj Mahal. For taking the name of the priceless mausoleum of Agra, one of the beauties and wonders of the world, for that alone Donald Trump should be stripped naked and whipped with scorpions along the boardwalk. - It is as if a giant toad has raped a butterfly.
When a caterpillar spins its cocoon, it goes through a transformative process and then emerges as a butterfly. Similarly, when we go through a practice of meditation and prayer, we loosen our egoic grip on a sense of self that is separate from the Whole and become vehicles of the emergent evolutionary paradigm of love, peace , compassion, wisdom, harmony and oneness that seeks expression on the planet.
I think that when young players really see their game rise next level, it's when practices are like competition and there's no separation there. Of course, there are adrenaline and the butterflies; you don't have that so much in practice. You want to fake yourself out and try to get them there because you want to be as close to that game mentality as you can when you step on that field every single day whether it's practice or in your backyard or down the street with your dad.
The Caterpillar cannot understand the butterfly
If nothing ever changed, there would be no such things as butterflies.
Lord Akeldama did so love to know all the gossip about the mundane world, but it was in the manner of a cat amusing himself among the butterflies without a need to interfere should their wings get torn off. They were only butterflies, after all.
David knew everyone because he's such a social butterfly.
Dada is not modern at all, it is rather a return to a quasi-Buddhist religion of indifference. Dada puts an artificial sweetness onto things, a snow of butterflies coming out of a conjurer's skull. Dada is stillness and does not understand the passions.