The Dance

She is young. Have I the right

Even to name her? Child,

It is not love I offer

Your quick limbs, your eyes;

Only the barren homage

Of an old man whom time

Crucifies. Take my hand

A moment in the dance,

Ignoring its sly pressure,

The dry rut of age,

And lead me under the boughs

Of innocence. Let me smell

My youth again in your hair.