The Woman Dancing
The woman dancing lifts her face
Passive amid the wilting flowers;
The Jazz-band clacks its sticks and bones
In great gay rhythm through the hours.

Men clad in black take turns to lead her;
Dwarfed sense blinds them as they rotate:
That is how moons of Saturn gyre
And cosmically migrate.

Saturn, however, doesn't look
That sad, inert and faraway
As though upon night's brooding face
Lay glorious ruins of day.