  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. |
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