The Dance - Rupert Brooke

poem: The Dance

A Song

As the Wind, and as the Wind,
In a corner of the way,
Goes stepping, stands twirling,
Invisibly, comes whirling,
Bows before, and skips behind,
In a grave, an endless play -

So my Heart, and so my Heart,
Following where your feet have gone,
Stirs dust of old dreams there ;
He turns a toe ; he gleams there,
Treading you a dance apart.
But you see not. You pass on.

poem by Rupert Brooke