Flower song of butterfly's...

When like a butterfly the Artist-mind
In spring of life inhales its air.
It can but say:
'The earth - is round - it is a sphere'

But when last autumnal shivers
shake the trees and kill the flowers,
It must elaborate:
'Though somewhat - flattened - at the poles...?

Amid the varied charms
Of Eloquence and Rhyme
One - endures above the rest:
'Granting objects proper names !'