IN A DANCE
That you have come to see
Under all things the flesh—
What does it prove?
Fabric and shining knee
Still intermesh,
And no less slenderly fresh
The dancers move.
This much at least is true
In a world of spurious wonder,
Flesh lying under
Texture and form and hue,
Wallows—and sings—and dies—
And after all beautiful things
Disconsolately cries.
Wrapped in the web of the loom
For a while it shines and rejoices,
But at length inclines to the voices
Of the inner room.
Things we see in a dance
Seem momentous and sweet—
Shoulders gleam, and feet
Rhythmic retreat and advance.
