This great purple butterfly，

　　In the prison of my hands，

　　Has a learning in his eye

　　Not a poor fool understands.

　　Once he lived a schoolmaster

　　With a stark¹， denying look；

　　A string of scholars went in fear

　　Of his great birch and his great book.

　　Like the clangour of a bell，

　　Sweet and harsh， harsh and sweet，

　　That is how he learnt so well

　　To take the roses for his meat.