11

To the Lady of the Dance

Soft is the hand and gentle are the eyes
That seek me in the din that surrounds us.
Quiet is the gaze that forms to my face,
And warming is the touch that has found us.

Sighs carry seedlings, glances carry tomes,
Murmurs speak with eloquent oration.
But all within too brief a time, too soon
The hours are gone by, and I alone
Do ponder on thy potion. If the crowd

Had been too large, then what if we'd ne'er met?.
What if, shy and feigning, we'd not allowed
It yet? But times do come to us perfect,
   Tho' less than perfect we. My only plea
   Is to be given much more time with thee.