He found her there beneath the cliff
In the shallows of the sea
Her body like a white, white swan
All still and cold was she
He kissed her on her pale wet lips
And combed her bonny hair
He cut twelve golden strands of it
And strung his harp with care
The harp it sang of murder
The harp it sang of blood
It rang across the lands of fate
To the darkling western wood
A butterfly, as it turns out, is only a thing for making more worms.