Sur Les Pointes

The time is near, my sweet,

'Tis almost here, my sweet,

After this strain has died

You will appear, my sweet.

Now, on the strings, my sweet,

The clear cue rings, my sweet,

Upon the note you glide

Out of the wings, my sweet.

Rapt, rapt, in dear delight,

In the moon’s dream, in white,

One with the starry grass

And with the starry night.

White, white, you gleam, my sweet,

White, white, you pass, my sweet,

Like dew on grass, my sweet,

Like mankind’s dream, my sweet.

Still as the down you drift,

Light as the mist you lift,

White as the snows you float,

Light as the moonbeam-mote.

O white bird from the moon

So soon to cease, my sweet,

Out of your peace, my sweet,

Come soon again, come soon.

John Masefield