Classic Poem

A LL his gallant youth he gave to love them,
Reverenced and honoured not a few,
Blue eyes—black eyes—how he bent above them,
Tender, almost true.

Woman in her glory and completeness,
This his sum of knowledge and of joys,
Knew her moods, her vanities, her sweetness,
As a child his toys.

Ever through his heart the sweet progression
Made its never-ending wilful way,
Strange of all that varied, vain procession
One alone might stay.

Nay—I know, for yesterday I drew him
From his cherished books and cameos,
To the garden where the slow wind threw him
A welcome from its rose.

Just an old man now who in his garden,
Bends and lingers by the blossomed throng,
A little sadly,—as though asking pardon
For being old so long.

And as his tremulous, white fingers righted
One rose that bent from out its sister-band,
A white-winged butterfly—bewildered—lighted
A moment on his hand.

Just a moment and as quickly vanished,
But he stood, his hand extended yet,
And with that gallant smile the years had banished
Said one name, “Pierrette!”

That was all—no other word—no story.
We paced the garden till the West was red,
Yet in that instant all Youth's flame and glory
Sprang from the ashes dead.

Strange that a heart wherein so much had perished,
Where many loves had lingered but to die,
Of all the dear—the beautiful—but cherished
Pierrette—a butterfly.

And so I think of all who stand to greet him,
When Death may lead him where his own are met,
But one alone shall laugh and run to meet him,
But one alone—Pierrette.