The Child-Dancers

 

 

A bomb has fallen over Nôtre Dame:

Germans have burned another Belgian town:

Russians quelled in the east: England is qualm:

 

I closed my eyes, and laid the paper down.

 

Gray ledge and moor-grass and pale bloom of light

By pale blue seas!

What laughter of a child world-sprite,

Sweet as the horns of lone October bees,

Shrills the faint shore with mellow, old delight?

What elves are these

In smocks gray-blue as sea and ledge,

Dancing upon the silvered edge

Of darkness – each ecstatic one

Making a happy orison,

With shining limbs, to the low-sunken sun? –

See: now they cease

Like nesting birds from flight:

Demure and debonair

They troop beside their hostess’ chair

To make their bedtime courtesies:

‘Spokoinoi notchi! – Gute Nacht!

Bon soir! Bon soir! – Good night!’

What far-gleamed lives are these

Linked in one holy family of art? –

Dreams: dreams once Christ and Plato dreamed:

How fair their happy shades depart!

Dear God! how simple it all seemed,

Till once again

Before my eyes the red type quivered: Slain:

Ten Thousand of the enemy. –

Then laughter! laughter from the ancient sea

Sang in the gloaming: ‘Athens! Galilee!’

And elfin voices called from the extinguished light: -

‘Spokoinoi notchi! Gute Nacht!

Bon soir! Bon soir! – Good night!’

 

 

Percy Mackaye