Classic Poem

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.