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.