Butterfly upon my hand, A voice of wonder within my mind, not my own but the butterfly's.

I want to fly like a butterfly around this beautiful world, till the last frame of my life and the last click of my heart.

Welhewan is charming us,' Sasha says in an unsure voice. 'It is trying to soothe us with its lullaby. Do not let yourself . . . Oh, a butterfly. Look how beautiful it is! No, don't look. The forest is making us happy, and we cannot let it.

Butterflies can't see their wings. They can't see how truly beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that as well.

Both moths and butterflies are drawn to the light. However, they both react differently to alternate shades of it. The moth prefers the moon and detests the sun, while the butterfly loves the sun and detests the moon. If our physical compositions are made to emulate the universe, then it makes sense for some of us to have more light or darkness inside our hearts than others — or that one is drawn closer to the sun versus the moon.

The moth prefers the moon and detests the sun, while the butterfly loves the sun and hides from the moon. Every living creature responds to light. But depending on the amount of light you have inside, determines which lamp in the sky your heart will swoon.

I discovered in nature the non utilitarian delights that I sought in art. Both were a form of magic, both were a game of intricate enchantment and deception.

Marvellous! he repeated, looking up at me. Look! The beauty--but that is nothing--look at the accuracy, the harmony. And so fragile! And so strong! And so exact! This is Nature--the balance of colossal forces. Every star is so--and every blade of grass stands so--and the mighty Kosmos il perfect equilibrium produces--this. This wonder; this masterpiece of Nature--the great artist.

Butterflies are self propelled flowers.

Some things, when they change, never do return to the way they once were. Butterflies for instance, and women who've been in love with the wrong man too often.

Hundreds of butterflies flitted in and out of sight like short-lived punctuation marks in a stream of consciousness without beginning or end.

But on paper, things can live forever. On paper, a butterfly never dies.

You are so young, Lyra, too young to understand this, but I shall tell you anyway and you'll understand it later: men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain. We bear their children, who are witches if they are female, human if not; and then in the blink of an eye they are gone, felled, slain, lost. Our sons, too. When a little boy is growing, he thinks he is immortal. His mother knows he isn't. Each time becomes more painful, until finally your heart is broken. Perhaps that is when Yambe-Akka comes for you. She is older than the tundra. Perhaps, for her, witches' lives are as brief as men's are to us.

I tell of hearts and souls and dances...Butterflies and second chances;Desperate ones and dreamers bound,Seeking life from barren ground,Who suffer on in earthly fateThe bitter pain of agony hate,Might but they stop and here forgiveWould break the bonds to breathe and liveAnd find that God in goodness bringsA chance for change, the hope of wingsTo rest in Him, and self to dieAnd so become a butterfly.

I believe that if there is a huge chunk of white/truth in you, you will be drawn mostly to truth. If there is a lot of black/ego in you, you will naturally migrate to darkness/ego. We can't change our natural compositions or our attraction to certain lighting, but we can slowly change our angle of perception. Anyone can work on balancing their inner lighting simply by adjusting their outer lenses. All you have to do is learn to use your heart before your mind to see things. There is no light greater than truth, and it shines at the heart of all creation. Be like a butterfly and celebrate it every day. It is inside you. Be aware of it so it can cultivate it to grow stronger and bigger.

The caterpillar does all the work, but the butterfly gets all the publicity.

Life is short. If you doubt me, ask a butterfly. Their average life span is a mere five to fourteen days.

and when all the wars are over, a butterfly will still be beautiful.

The uglier the caterpillar the lovelier the butterfly.