| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | Poem to Be Danced | | By Helen Hoyt |
| | From “City Pastorals”
CAN a poem say my heart | |
| While I stand still apart? | |
| I myself would be the song, | |
| I myself would be the rhyme, | |
| Moving delicately along; | 5 |
| And my steps would make the time, | |
| And the stanzas be my rest. | |
| |
| What can I say with the words of my lips? | |
| Oh, let me speak from my toes’ tips | |
| Of my treasure and zest! | 10 |
| |
| Dancing, I can tell every sweet— | |
| Slow and soft, soft and fleet. | |
| Dancing, I can tell every ill, | |
| All my inmost wish fulfil; | |
| All my sorrowing I can heal. | 15 |
| |
| Oh, to reveal | |
| With the bending of my head, | |
| With the curving of my hand, | |
| What no poem has ever said, | |
| What no words could understand! | 20 |
| 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. | | | | |
|
|
