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| I AM a dancer. When I pray | |
| I do not gather thoughts with clumsy thread | |
| Into poor phrases. Birds all have a way | |
| Of singing home the truth that they are birds, | |
| And so’ my loving litany is said | 5 |
| Without the aid of words. | |
| I am a dancer. Under me | |
| The floor dreams lapis lazuli, | |
| With inlaid gems of every hue— | |
| Mother o’ pearl I tread like dew, | 10 |
| While at the window of her frame | |
| Our Lady, of the hallowed name, | |
| Leans on the sill. Gray saints glare down, | |
| Too long by godliness entranced, | |
| With piety of painted frown, | 15 |
| Who never danced— | |
| But Oh, Our Lady’s quaint, arrested look | |
| Remembers when she danced with bird and brook, | |
| Of wind and flower and innocence a part, | |
| Before the rose of Jesus kissed her heart | 20 |
| And men heaped heavy prayers upon her breast. | |
| She watches me with gladness half confessed | |
| Who dare to gesture homage with my feet, | |
| Or twinkle lacy steps of joy | |
| To entertain the Holy Boy; | 25 |
| Who, laughing, pirouette and pass, | |
| Translated by the colored glass, | |
| To meanings infinitely sweet. | |
| And though it is not much, I know, | |
| To fan the incense to and fro | 30 |
| With skirt as flighty as a wing, | |
| It seems Our Lady understands | |
| The method of my worshipping, | |
| The hymns I’m lifting in my hands— | |
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I am a dancer—
Contemporary Verse | 35 |
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