SYMBOLS

Beautiful words, like butterflies, blow by,

With what swift colours on their fragile wings!—

Some that are less articulate than a sigh,

Some that were names of ancient, lovely things.

What delicate careerings of escape,

When they would pass beyond the baffled reach,

To leave a haunting shadow and a shape,—

Eluding still the careful traps of speech.

And I who watch and listen, lie in wait,

Seeing the cloudy cavalcades blow past,—

Happy if some bright vagrant, soon or late,

May venture near the snares of sound, at last —

Most fortunate captor if, from time to time,

One may be taken, trembling, in a rhyme.