A Ballet

I think that if you pelted

Flowers down on me

Until I had no breath,

I could not bear the fragrance

Of so sweet a death.

Just so'that music's beauty, note on note,

A white-bodied moth, beats me to breathlessness.

Fingers of sweet sound clutch at my throat,

A soft haze dims your bright-limbed loveliness.

But now upon the folded flowers

Fall drops more salt than tears.

Arise from drifts of apple-blooms

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And hurl yourself on spears! Margery Swett