TO SÀÏ

You chase the blue butterflies, The shining dew is shaken by your feet, That are white in the young grasses; Swift, you hesitate, poised; And they elude you; fluttering In the windless gold. Sàï is small, But a little child, With little sorrows; Yet her tears shine with laughter, Her face comes and goes between the wet leaves, As a face in sleep Comes and goes between green shadows, As moving lights hide and shine in the marshes. I shall not look at her, Lest she should hide from mine eyes In the shadow. I bring her pale honey in a comb, apples Sweet and smelling; and leave them beside me; Then comes she softly. There is a bee in the willow-weed, From flower to flower it climbs, and I watch it Till the honey and apples are eaten. Sàï is quite close to me; now she has gone She has forgotten me. Sàï is small, But a little child.