Classic Poem

Her thoughts are like a flock of butterflies.
—She has a merry love of little things,
—And a bright flutter of speech, whereto she brings
A threefold eloquence—voice, hands and eyes.
Yet under all a subtle silence lies
—As a bird's heart is hidden by its wings;
—And you shall search through many wanderings
The fairyland of her realities.

She hides herself behind a busy brain—
—A woman, with a child's laugh in her blood;
—A maid, wearing the shadow of motherhood—
Wise with the quiet memory of old pain,
As the soft glamor of remembered rain
—Hallows the gladness of a sunlit wood.