Helen Hoyt

From “City Pastorals”

CAN a poem say my heart

While I stand still apart?

I myself would be the song,

I myself would be the rhyme,

Moving delicately along;

And my steps would make the time,

And the stanzas be my rest.

What can I say with the words of my lips?

Oh, let me speak from my toes’ tips

Of my treasure and zest!

Dancing, I can tell every sweet—

Slow and soft, soft and fleet.

Dancing, I can tell every ill,

All my inmost wish fulfil;

All my sorrowing I can heal.

Oh, to reveal

With the bending of my head,

With the curving of my hand,

What no poem has ever said,

What no words could understand!

Things for a book too sad, too gay,

The verses of my feet would say;

Telling sorrow, telling delight

Into the very marrow of men’s sight.