The Dance

‘My memory of Heaven awakes!She’s not of the earth, although her light,As lantern’d by her body, makesA piece of it past bearing bright.So innocently proud and fairShe is, that Wisdom sings for gleeAnd Folly dies, breathing one airWith such a bright-cheek’d chastity;And though her charms are a strong lawCompelling all men to admire,They go so clad with lovely aweNone but the noble dares desire.He who would seek to make her hisWill comprehend that souls of graceOwn sweet repulsion, and that ’tisThe quality of their embraceTo be like the majestic reachOf coupled suns, that, from afar,Mingle their mutual spheres, while eachCircles the twin obsequious star;And, in the warmth of hand to hand,Of heart to heart, he’ll vow to noteAnd reverently understandHow the two spirits shine remote;And ne’er to numb fine honour’s nerve,Nor let sweet awe in passion melt,Nor fail by courtesies to observeThe space which makes attraction felt;Nor cease to guard like life the senseWhich tells him that the embrace of loveIs o’er a gulf of differenceLove cannot sound, nor death remove.’

This learn’d I, watching where she danced,Native to melody and light,And now and then toward me glanced,Pleased, as I hoped, to please my sight.

Ah, love to speak was impotent,Till music did a tongue confer,And I ne’er knew what music meant,Until I danced to it with her.Too proud of the sustaining powerOf my, till then, unblemish’d joy.My passion, for reproof, that hourTasted mortality’s alloy,And bore me down an eddying gulf;I wish’d the world might run to wreck,So I but once might fling myselfObliviously about her neck.I press’d her hand, by will or chanceI know not, but I saw the raysWithdrawn, which did till then enhanceHer fairness with its thanks for praise.I knew my spirit’s vague offenceWas patent to the dreaming eyeAnd heavenly tact of innocence,And did for fear my fear defy,And ask’d her for the next dance. ‘Yes.’‘No,’ had not fall’n with half the force.She was fulfill’d with gentleness,And I with measureless remorse;And, ere I slept, on bended kneeI own’d myself, with many a tear,Unseasonable, disorderly,And a deranger of love’s sphere;Gave thanks that, when we stumble and fall,We hurt ourselves, and not the truth;And, rising, found its brightness allThe brighter through the tears of ruth.

Nor was my hope that night made less,Though order’d, humbled, and reproved;Her farewell did her heart expressAs much, but not with anger, moved.My trouble had my soul betray’d;And, in the night of my despair,My love, a flower of noon afraid,Divulged its fulness unaware.I saw she saw; and, O sweet Heaven,Could my glad mind have creditedThat influence had to me been givenTo affect her so, I should have saidThat, though she from herself conceal’dLove’s felt delight and fancied harm,They made her face the jousting fieldOf joy and beautiful alarm.