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The tall dancer dances

The tall dancer dances

With slowly-taken breath:

In his feet music,

And on his face death.

His face is a mask,

It is so still and white:

His withered eyes shut,

Unmindful of light.

The old fiddler fiddles

The merry "Silver Tip"

With softly-beating foot

And laughing eye and lip.

And round the dark walls

The people sit and stand,

Praising the art

Of the dancer of the land.

But he dances there

As if his kin were dead;

Clay in his thoughts

And lightning in his tread.


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