from Elegy on the Death of Mme. Anna Pavlova

The glory and the ardour of the stage,

The dazzling feet that made a mock of death,

The exultation, the delicious rage,

Are cast upon the chilly morning’s breath.

In her we saw the Being, not the bird,

The rapture of a Spirit uncreate;

Less in the flutes than in those feet we heard

The pride that lifts men far above their fate.

Meyerestein, E.H.W.