Song for My Sister
by Charles Henri Ford

The wakeless butterflies you keep
do ply the cables of your sleep,
And boats to them are little dreams
as light as things that only seem.

The wind that breaks the hearts of birds
and cleaves the sailor to a stone
doth breathe as softly as the words
issue from a dove’s breastbone.

When ships with luna moths for men
ripple the waters you lie in,
the sea of dew that drops the hours
to fishes, funny little flow’rs
for my Ophelia when you drown
nightly and wreathe your head around.