The Dance

There’s nothing still in the busy world.

Breezes ruffle the wings that are furled,

Seeds go dancing across the meadow,

The pine-tree plays with her dancing shadow,

And ever, beneath the rough elm bark,

The river of sap flows on in the dark.

Far in the mountain, under the sea,

Invisible atoms mysteriously

Move to the making of valley and dune,

Marching on to an unheard tune.

Like homing birds the red clouds fly

At dawn. Like water the stars flow by.

Delicate flowers, each on her stem,

Dance with the leaves surrounding them,

And every weed and shell of the ocean

Answers the tide with a rhythmic motion.

Mary Webb