XXVII. Sonnets for Dancer

Daring, deep do you make the grade:

neither a letter complete nor so inclined

as to chase these clouds now, nor how they fade

into the next; always bowing to never mind

the gap, the swollen, your comely air

with lenses between, making matters bare.

Barres still beam, you prop your foot-faire,

yet mists are still seen as a hire up there.

Will those new sheens be bejeweled like the rest?

What of your promises: the green hillside possessed?

Winged, without, you are gloriously stated: still

wings wrought within tell the taller pension’s will.

I will greet you in the morning, the dusk of your flight

to chase renewed dawns, the changement of delight.

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