TO SAI

You chase the blue butterflies,

The shining dew is shaken by your feet,

That are white in the young grasses;

Swift, you hesitate, poised;

And they elude you; fluttering

In the windless gold.

Sai is small,

But a little child,

With little sorrows;

Yet her tears shine with laughter,

Her face comes and goes between the wet leaves,

As a face in sleep

Comes and goes between green shadows,

As moving lights hide and shine in the marshes.

I shall not look at her,

Lest she should hide from mine eyes

In the shadow.

I bring her pale honey in a comb, apples

Sweet and smelling; and leave them beside me;

Then comes she softly.

There is a bee in the willow-weed,

From flower to flower it climbs, and I watch it

Till the honey and apples are eaten.

Sai is quite close to me; now she has gone

She has forgotten me.

Sai is small,

But a little child.