dots-menu
×

William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. (1878–1962). Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1920.

The Dancer in the Shrine

I AM a dancer. When I pray

I do not gather thoughts with clumsy thread

Into poor phrases. Birds all have a way

Of singing home the truth that they are birds,

And so’ my loving litany is said

Without the aid of words.

I am a dancer. Under me

The floor dreams lapis lazuli,

With inlaid gems of every hue—

Mother o’ pearl I tread like dew,

While at the window of her frame

Our Lady, of the hallowed name,

Leans on the sill. Gray saints glare down,

Too long by godliness entranced,

With piety of painted frown,

Who never danced—

But Oh, Our Lady’s quaint, arrested look

Remembers when she danced with bird and brook,

Of wind and flower and innocence a part,

Before the rose of Jesus kissed her heart

And men heaped heavy prayers upon her breast.

She watches me with gladness half confessed

Who dare to gesture homage with my feet,

Or twinkle lacy steps of joy

To entertain the Holy Boy;

Who, laughing, pirouette and pass,

Translated by the colored glass,

To meanings infinitely sweet.

And though it is not much, I know,

To fan the incense to and fro

With skirt as flighty as a wing,

It seems Our Lady understands

The method of my worshipping,

The hymns I’m lifting in my hands—

I am a dancer—

Contemporary Verse