The Dancer

The young girl dancing lifts her face
Passive among the drooping flowers;
The jazz band clatters sticks and bones
In a bright rhythm through the hours.

The men in black conduct her round;
With small sensations they are blind:
Thus Saturn's Moons revolve embraced
And through the cosmos wind.

But Saturn has not that strange look
Unhappy, still, and far away,
As though upon the face of Night
Lay the bright wreck of day.