Dance, little children ... it is holy twilight . . . <br />Have you hung paper flowers about the necks of the ikons? <br />Dance soft . . . but very gaily ... on tip-toes like the snow. <br /> <br />Spread your little pinafores <br />And courtesy as the snow does . . . <br />The snow that bends this way and that <br />In silent salutation. <br />Do not wait to warm your hands about the fires. <br />Do not mind the rough licking of the wind. <br />Dance forth into the shaggy night that shakes itself upon you. <br /> <br />Dance beneath the Kremlin towers—golden <br />In the royal <br />Purple of the sky— <br />But not there where the light is strongest . . . <br />Bright hair is dazzling in the light. <br />Dance in the dim violet places <br />Where the snow throws out a faint lustre <br />Like the lustre of dead faces . . . <br />Snow downier than wild-geese feathers . . . <br />Enough filling for five hundred pillows ... <br />By the long deep trench of the dead. <br /> <br />Bend, little children, <br />To the rhythm of the snow <br />That undulates this way and that <br />In silver spirals. <br />Cup your hands like tiny chalices . . . <br />Let the flakes fill up the rosy <br />Hollows of your palms <br />And alight upon your hair, <br />Like kisses that cling softly <br />A moment and let go ... <br />Like many kisses falling altogether . . . <br />Quick . . . cool kisses.<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/snow-dance-for-the-dead/
