Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Poem to Be DancedHelen Hoyt
From “City Pastorals”
C
While I stand still apart?
I myself would be the song,
I myself would be the rhyme,
Moving delicately along;
And my steps would make the time,
And the stanzas be my rest.
Oh, let me speak from my toes’ tips
Of my treasure and zest!
Slow and soft, soft and fleet.
Dancing, I can tell every ill,
All my inmost wish fulfil;
All my sorrowing I can heal.
With the bending of my head,
With the curving of my hand,
What no poem has ever said,
What no words could understand!
Things for a book too sad, too gay,
The verses of my feet would say;
Telling sorrow, telling delight
Into the very marrow of men’s sight.