The Lady At Dusk
It was on one dusk of summer while I
Sat then brooding on some wooden plank
And the air rippled with glitters golden raining down
From the Western sun
—which slowly, slowly bided time
To bid the day goodbye—
That I, that very moment, chanced upon
As I looked up from my stupor,
Far ahead from where I was, a stone's throw perhaps,
The fairest sight
—in an intricately delicate dance,
a lady on a prance.
She spun, and swayed, and twirled with grace,
She danced with naught a care
Of the world around and yet they trained on her their sights,
The world of men.
—And how was it on a lady's dance
Many a heart were much entranced?
'Tis strains a lot the mind discerning
Why at times the heart to great extents desire
The unattainable; which makes a stone's throw, to say the least
Become a million miles.
—in the dying light, one could only digest
The beauty and all good the lady
—the dance—
suggests.
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