Don’t call common

 Common and unclean

John Clare Stokes

You can imagine

The chagrin

Of the butterflies

Lowering the swing

Not so my Lord

I am too old to 

Imagine

And the butterflies

Raised the swing

Again they lowered

The swing

Not so my Lord

For I am grown

I do not swing

It was then

I heard a voice

Do not call what I

Have declared

Imaginative playing

Something

Common and 

Above your

Aging