Comments about Radclyffe Hall
Butterfly, butterfly, where are you going?
'Over the roses into the sky.'
Butterfly, butterfly, there is no knowing
When you'll come back again, so good-bye!
Butterfly, butterfly, summer is glowing,
But with the winter you too must die,
And your frail soul will be gently blowing
Upward to God on a rose's sigh.
Butterfly, butterfly, butterfly!
The Moon's Massage
The Moon looked in at the window,
And smiled as I wrote to you,
She lay like a frail white maiden,
In shadowy folds of blue.
Her bosom was bare and tender,
And slight, for she still was young,
And down from her dainty shoulders
A mantle of starlight hung.