When she came out, that white little Russian dancer, <br />With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young, <br />He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players, <br />And only heard an immortal music sung,- <br /> <br />Of dryads flashing in the green woods of April, <br />On cobwebs trembling over the deep, wet grass: <br />Fleeing their shadows with laughter, with hands uplifted, <br />Through the whirled sinister sun he saw them pass,- <br /> <br />Lovely immortals gone, yet existing somewhere, <br />Still somewhere laughing in woods of immortal green, <br />Young he had lived among fires, or dreamed of living, <br />Lovers in youth once seen, or dreamed he had seen. . . <br /> <br />And watched her knees flash up, and her young hands beckon, <br />And the hair that streamed behind, and the taunting eyes. <br />He felt this place dissolving in living darkness, <br />And through the darkness he felt his childhood rise. <br /> <br />Soft, and shining, and sweet, hands filled with petals. . . <br />And watching her dance, he was grateful to forget <br />The fiddlers, leaning and drawing their bows together, <br />And the tired fingers on the stops of his cornet.<br /><br />Conrad Potter Aiken<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cornet/
