O little dancer, slim as a new moon,

A candle flame blown by the wind - how soon

Will all this be forgotten! Do you care

The pagan poppies dying in your hair;

Do you despair to think that even as they

Your lovely life will tarnish in a day ?

How can we keep you, butterfly !- O must

Such lovely grace resolve itself in dust ?

We must believe that some day when you lie

Hid from the lights, beneath, the open sky

The trees will bend more perfectly above you,

The flowers dance gayer for they'll know and love you,

And we will mind a little less the cold,

Remembering your grace when we are old.