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Elegos for the Dancer Cumani
The wind of the woods races brightly to the hills. Precociously it dawns: the adolescent, of the blood, has similar dismay. And the water's track is dawn upon the shore. In me exhausted was the torment of the sand, to heart-beats, roving the night. The durable most ancient cry pains: pity for the youthful animal struck dead among the grasses of bitter morning after the new rains. The earth is in that desperate breast, and there my voice has measure: You dance to its closed number and time returns in figures fresh: sadness too, but so to quiet turned that through sweetness burns. In this silence rapidly consuming confound me not ephemeral, leave me not alone in light; now that in mild fire in me, you are born Anadyomene.