Ballet school

Fawns in the winter wood

Who feel their horns, and leap,

Swans whom the bleakening mood

Of evening stirs from sleep,

Tall flowers that unfurl

As a moth, driven, flies,

Flowers with the breasts of a girl

And sea-cold eyes.

The bare bright mirrows glow

For their enchanted shapes.

Each is a flame, and so,

Like flame, escapes.

Babette Deutsch