There’s a flutter of grey through the trees:
Ah, the exquisite curves of her dress as she passes
Fleet with her feet on the path where the grass is!
I see not her face, I but see
The swift re-appearance, the flitting persistence—
There!—of that flutter of grey in the distance.
It has flickered and fluttered away:
What a teasing regret she has left in my day-dream,
And what dreams of delight are the dreams that one may
It was only a flutter of grey;
But the vaguest of raiment’s impossible chances
Has set my heart beating the way of old dances.
Arthur Symons, 1865-1945