The Class

 

It is the break; the pupils are at rest,

They sketch the arabesques they cannot dare

And give each other hints, with mock and jest.

 

The famous Master watches from his chair,

He is a little man with robin’s eyes,

His choicest pupil sits beside him there.

 

To-day, she is the Ballet’s brightest star;

They joke together with their memories.

The pupils watch her, backed against the barre.

 

The fiddler sucks a sweet and cons a score,

His damp, thin hairs about his temples cling.

The Mistress fills the can and starts to pour.

 

She is a little woman, dusky-faced,

All wire, whipcord, whalebone and steel spring,

For every effort exquisitely braced.

 

Now that the floor is watered, she commands

The steps to follow, which her feet display.

Swift, the last slipper rubs among the sands,

 

Tensely, the dancers wait upon the beat.

It falls, the music sounds; away, away,

Drumlike the running batter of the feet

 

Tramples until the flooring seems to sway,

Swiftly she urges them with voice and hands,

The ripple like the wind upon the wheat.

 

Up, down and sideways go the flying feet,

No step escapes the watchers as they dance.

All Russia is on honour with all France.

 

The bud, the promise, and the incomplete...

Which will emerge? For surely one or more,

When this, the budding is a rose of May,

And that, the April, is a summer day,

Will snatch the golden star from flying chance

And hear the world’s praise rising to a roar.

 

John Masefield