THE CABARET DANCER
Breathe not the word Tomorrow in her ears.
Tomorrow is for men who send their ships
Over the sea to moor at alien slips;
For dreamers, dawdlers, martyrs, pioneers,
Not for this golden mote. To her appears
No hovering dark that prophesies eclipse.
Grace of the swallow in the swaying hips,
Heart of the swallow, knowing not the years!
Breathe not a word of beauty that shall fade,
Of lagging steps, of bare and lonely sorrow
On roads that other dancing feet have found
Beyond the grove where life with laughter played.
Breathe not a word of that grim land Tomorrow
Lest she should quake to ashes at the sound.
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