FOR A DANCE
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here is in the danceThe joy of children on a May day lawn.The fragments of old dreams and dead romanceCome to us from the dancers who are gone. What strains of ancient bloodMove quicker to the music's passionate beat?I see the gulls fly over a shadowy floodAnd Munster fields of barley and of wheat. And I see sunny France,And the vine's tendrils quivering to the light,And faces, faces, yearning for the danceWith wistful eyes that look on our delight. They live through us againAnd we through them, who wish for lips and eyesWherewith to feel, not fancy, the old painPassed with reluctance through the centuries To us, who in the mazeOf dancing and hushed music woven afreshAmid the shifting mirrors of hours and daysKnow not our spirit, neither know our flesh; Nor what ourselves have been,Through the long way that brought us to the dance:I see a little green by CamolinAnd odorous orchards blooming in Provence. Two listen to the roarOf waves moon-smitten, where no steps intrude.Who knows what lips were kissed at Laracor?Or who it was that walked through Burnham wood?
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