The Dance Poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
The Dance
She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
Of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: dance
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4/26/2024 2:04:04 AM # 1.0.0.1119
