This was the way of it, or I forget
How visions end. The flaming sun was set
Or setting in a sky as green as grass,
Stained here and there like a window, where there was
A martyr-cloud with halo dipped in gold
Or red as the Sacred Heart is. From the old
Low house—a country house not built with hands
And of that country where the poplar stands
Whose leaves have shivered in our dreams—there came
With the rising moon the dancers to the same
Tune we have heard we scarce remember when,
Nor care so only that it sound again.
Each dancer wears a fancy for a dress,
This one with starlike tears is gemmed no less
Than that is crowned with roses as of lips
That kissed and do not kiss. There also trips
Pierrot, because we all have lost, and thin,
Cruelly swift, victorious Harlequin,
Because some find and keep, but both entwine,
Because she needs them both, with Columbine.
Then lanterns on the trees to radiant fruit
Burn till dawn plucks them, and the light pursuit
Of dancers on the lawn is done, and laughter
Of those who fled and those who followed after
Dies; to a little wind the darkened trees
Bend gravely and resume their silences.