Watteau
The Louvre
HE dances on a toe
As light as Mercury's :
Sweet herald, give thy message ! No,
He dances on ; the world is his,
The sunshine and his wingy hat ;
His eyes are round
Beneath the brim :
To merely dance where he is found
Is fate to him
And he was born for that.
He dances in a cloak
Of vermeil and of blue :
Gay youngster, underneath the oak,
Come, laugh and love ! In vain we woo ;
He is a human butterfly ;—
No soul, no kiss,
No glance nor joy !
Though old enough for manhood's bliss,
He is a boy,
Who dances and must die.
