Loosed were the horses in the grass Where the harvest was abounding. Quickly I came but missed him, alas, In that hour of the bugle's sounding. My man was gone; pain stabbed in my heart, Since that ringing trumpet blew. I saw a blood-red butterfly start -- Away to the sun it flew. They told me in town he had entrained For the Front, where he met death, singing. But there in the grass my eyes were strained For a bright red butterfly winging. |