Tell me, Tanagra, who made Out of clay so sweet a thing? Are you the immortal shade Of a man's imagining? In your incarnation meet All things fair and all things fleet.
Arrow from Diana's bow, Atalanta's feet of fire, Some one made you long ago, Made you out of his desire. Waken from the sleep of clay And rise and dance the world away.
Giovanni Malatesta, the lame old man, Walking one night, as he was used, being old, Upon the grey seashore at Rimini, And thinking dimly of those two whom love Led to one death, and his less happy soul For which Cain waited, heard a seagull scream, Twice, like Francesca; for he struck but twice. At that, rage thrust down pity; for it seemed As if those windy bodies with the sea's Unfriended heart within them for a voice Had turned to mock him, and he called them friends, And he had found a wild peace hearing them Cry senseless cries, halloing to the wind. He turned his back upon the sea; he saw The ragged teeth of the sharp Apennines Shut on the sea; his shadow in the moon Ploughed up a furrow with an iron staff In the hard sand, and thrust a long lean chin Outward and downward, and thrust out a foot, And leaned to follow after. As he saw His crooked knee go forward under him And after it the long straight iron staff, "The staff," he thought, "is Paolo: like that staff And like that knee we walked between the sun, And her unmerciful eyes"; and the old man, Thinking of God, and how God ruled the world, And gave to one man beauty for a snare And a warped body to another man, Not less than he in soul, not less than he In hunger and capacity for joy, Forgot Francesca's evil and his wrong, His anger, his revenge, that memory, Wondering at man's forgiveness of the old Divine injustice, wondering at himself: Giovanni Malatesta judging God.
Olivier Metra's Waltz of Roses Sheds in a rhythmic shower The very petals of the flower; And all is roses, The rouge of petals in a shower.
Down the long hall the dance returning Rounds the full circle, rounds The perfect rose of lights and sounds, The rose returning Into the circle of its rounds.
Alone, apart, one dancer watches Her mirrored, morbid grace; Before the mirror, face to face, Alone she watches Her morbid, vague, ambiguous grace.