Eccentric Ballet

SOUL that moulds the body’s grace no more;—
In that wild ballet on the winter stage,
When the pale dancer lying at death’s door
Felt the slow hand of doom, and a veiled image
Enter her eyes, her brow.
‘Now is your hour, now.’

There in pre-Raphaelite dimness, gray-gold swoon,
Her memoried wraiths appear with loosened hair
And make strange rustlings as of music there,
Though all is silent in her winter room.
Terror of desolation pierced the cold,
And intense longing turned the black to gold.

Although no longer musical and young,
Dissolving, dying, dulled, the senses make
Celestial music on her muted tongue,
Achieving beauty for a longing’s sake.
White yachts of heaven float ominously,
And great windows open to the sea.

Gather your inspiration’s scattered flowers
Bright on the darkened stage and dance again,
The thwarted sadness of your wasted hours,
The intricate unholiness of pain,
Of unseen silver and of unflashed gold
And of a story greater than you told.

Swing to the dark from still aspiring light
While your loved wraiths strike lute, guitar, tambour,
Singing the misty memory of delight,
Recalling hidden daydreams of the poor,
Departing voice of hope, quick-curtained destiny
Hushes the melody.

Before the curtain falls, sing, dance, and play
While the strong soul supports the failing breath
In that eccentric, last, and wild ballet
Until the angry soul dissolves in death.
Splendor of motion dimming into space
The visionary, soon-forgotten face.