Dancer

Clark Ashton Smith

O dancer with the dove-swift feet and hands,
So palely swaying
Against the moon's replenished rondure,
Thou treadest not this autumn ground alone:
But in my heart, as in some high-piled press,
Dancing, thou crushest out with thy wan feet
A vintage strong, a wine sanguinolent
That shall restore the summer.

Printed from: www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/112
Printed on: November 25, 2017