The Dance

Fingers hold forth where the sun flies high, In the soft aerial blush of the blushing hours, Delightfully swirling with a hymn of the sky, As blooms yield low to rhythms of powers.

Whole swaths of green ripple across the air, Each note in deep grasses sweeps in praise, Lifting the tremors of hearts laid bare, Through all the moments of delicate days.

Let us lose ourselves to the time between, Where nature has crafted her sweet embrace, Step forth with the winds in clouds more serene, And twine our lives in the dance of grace.

• John Crowe Ransom