Worshipping

In the swirling and whirling of dancers
All across the ballroom floor
There was beauty of passionate being
I had somewhere seen before.

With a motion of marvelous spirit
In the grace of a competent flow,
In the bodies and eyes of the dancers
Was the glory of life aglow!

But it wasn’t the rhythm they danced to,
And it wasn’t the chandeliers,
Nor the light of diamonds cascading
On their shoes and wrists and ears;

And it wasn’t bare arms, bright shoulders,
Of the women so shapely and fine,
Nor the regal attire of their partners,
Though sharply commanding each line.

No, but as in the act of a master,
Like a worker who scales a height,
And with never a waste of motion
Hammers a roof down right;

In the quick sure hands of a pilot,
In a waiter’s calm balancing tray,
In a walk through a crowded city—
Yet cutting so freely each way;

In the act of each man with a purpose,
In the plan of self-guiding control,
There’s a feeling of powerful lightness,
And that dancing worshipped the soul!

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