Spatial depths of being survive The birth to death recurrences Of feet dancing on earth of sand; Vibrations of the dance survive The sand; the sand, elect, survives The dancer. He can find no source Of magic adequate to bind The sand upon his feet, his feet Upon his dance, his dance upon The diamond body of his being.
The Dance is Over by Joy at Home
I bid goodbye to an old friend today. He is marrying, and won't need me anymore. Or so it seems.
Once we danced together, Baring our souls innocently… At least I did. We rarely so much as shook hands, it is true, Yet it seemed we waltzed beautifully, Making sure we understood Where the other was coming from, And, more importantly, Where they had been.
Then the music quieted. It was harder to catch the rhythm, And our steps strayed. Life took a turn, And at last we parted, Smiling for a while Across the distance of Limited contact.
No longer we waltzed, praying together to Almighty God; No longer I could watch him with guitar and drums, His soul-blood mixing with that of mine Until I felt alive enough to praise, And pray with confidence. He showed me how Real praise to one's Maker goes. He had worship down to an art, And inspired me more than David Dancing before the Ark.
But the music stopped. I wish him a long life, Fulfilled, with all his dreams in place. May he teach ten dozen more to Dance with the same fervor
As he welcomed me with, long ago.
My Last Dance by Julia Ward howe
The shell of objects inwardly consumed Will stand, till some convulsive wind awakes; Such sense hath Fire to waste the heart of things, Nature, such love to hold the form she makes. Thus, wasted joys will show their early bloom, Yet crumble at the breath of a caress; The golden fruitage hides the scathèd bough, Snatch it, thou scatterest wide its emptiness. For pleasure bidden, I went forth last night To where, thick hung, the festal torches gleamed; Here were the flowers, the music, as of old, Almost the very olden time it seemed. For one with cheek unfaded, (though he brings My buried brothers to me, in his look,) Said, `Will you dance?' At the accustomed words I gave my hand, the old position took. Sound, gladsome measure! at whose bidding once I felt the flush of pleasure to my brow, While my soul shook the burthen of the flesh, And in its young pride said, `Lie lightly thou!'
Then, like a gallant swimmer, flinging high My breast against the golden waves of sound, I rode the madd'ning tumult of the dance, Mocking fatigue, that never could be found.
Chide not,--it was not vanity, nor sense, (The brutish scorn such vaporous delight,) But Nature, cadencing her joy of strength To the harmonious limits of her right.
She gave her impulse to the dancing Hours, To winds that sweep, to stars that noiseless turn; She marked the measure rapid hearts must keep Devised each pace that glancing feet should learn.
And sure, that prodigal o'erflow of life, Unvow'd as yet to family or state, Sweet sounds, white garments, flowery coronals Make holy, in the pageant of our fate.
Sound, measure! but to stir my heart no more-- For, as I moved to join the dizzy race, My youth fell from me; all its blooms were gone, And others showed them, smiling, in my face.
Faintly I met the shock of circling forms Linked each to other, Fashion's galley-slaves, Dream-wondering, like an unaccustomed ghost That starts, surprised, to stumble over graves.
For graves were 'neath my feet, whose placid masks Smiled out upon my folly mournfully, While all the host of the departed said, `Tread lightly--thou art ashes, even as we.'