Isadora

Beauty came out of the early world,

Her hyacinthine hair still curled,

Her robe still white on auroral limbs ;

And her body sang the self-same hymns

It long ago had sung to the morn

When death gave birth and love was born.

And once again her presence proved,

As most immortally she moved,

That in her meditative eye

The child of death can never die

But dances with inspired feet

On every hill, in every street.

She raised her hand - and Irma came,

Theresa, Lisel, each like a flame,

Anna, Erica, Gretel: the tread

Of life still dying, never dead. . . .

And like a bird-song in a wood,

Within their very heart she stood.

Witter Bynner