Butterflies, white butterflies, in the sunshine,
Have you seen them? Really seen them?
Lovely things!

Two windows has the little room,
One to the north, the other to the south;
Open, both, for the sun and the air
She needed so But now . . . . . . . . . .

And from the brow of this hill, here,
To-day, just as before,
The house under its snug hat of a new red roof,
And the wide eye of the south window there,
The wide unlidded eye,
Open to sun and air,
Just as before, just as before.

And, nearer, the north window,
One has to swing around to and pass
To reach the house,
A blind eye, wide, unblinking,
Open, too, just as before.
And through its greyness,
Quite clearly to be seen from here,
The white chest of drawers,
So clearly to be seen, so memory stabbing,
One seems again within that little room,
Sitting on a little chair there,
Facing that white chest of drawers,
Opposite to her who sat her back to the white chest,
Her dark head slanting against her chair's white back
Her dark head heavy,
Her dark head weary.
Nothing but weariness left:
Weariness of hand and foot and knee and back;
Weariness of wide, unquiet eyes glimpsing things unseen,
Weariness of wide, unquiet eyes forgetting you.
Remembering you, forgetting you again;
Weariness of the journey from the weary ring finger
To the wearier middle finger,
Of her mother's wedding ring;
The silence of weariness;
The slow withdrawal of her who sat in that unresponsive body,
The young soul whiteness of her unloosening its shell,
And slipping out — and slipping out — and slipping out —

Things to know! Things to know!
I shall not see her, today
In that little room,
With its windows wide to north and south,
This I know;
The chair with the white back is empty,
The room is quiet,
This I know;
Shells, shells, shells everywhere,
Above ground, under ground,
This I know;
Hers up there, in that little room,
Lying there,
A still thing under a still, white sheet
And this I know

Butterflies, white butterflies, in the sunshine,
Have you seen them? Really seen them?
Lovely things!