The Dancers

This was the way of it, or I forget How visions end. The flaming sun was set Or setting in a sky as green as grass, Stained here and there like a window, where there was A martyr-cloud with halo dipped in gold Or red as the Sacred Heart is. From the old Low house—a country house not built with hands And of that country where the poplar stands Whose leaves have shivered in our dreams—there came With the rising moon the dancers to the same Tune we have heard we scarce remember when, Nor care so only that it sound again. Each dancer wears a fancy for a dress, This one with starlike tears is gemmed no less Than that is crowned with roses as of lips That kissed and do not kiss. There also trips Pierrot, because we all have lost, and thin, Cruelly swift, victorious Harlequin, Because some find and keep, but both entwine, Because she needs them both, with Columbine. Then lanterns on the trees to radiant fruit Burn till dawn plucks them, and the light pursuit Of dancers on the lawn is done, and laughter Of those who fled and those who followed after Dies; to a little wind the darkened trees Bend gravely and resume their silences.