WITH tremulous feet advancing,

That hardly touch the ground,

Fair forms embracing, dancing,

And lightly whirling round,

With the sounds of joy and gladness,

As a cloud that the moonlight sears

Is mingled a tone of sadness

From a far-off region of tears.

They tread the mystic measure

In garments of beauty clad,

Yet even in their pleasure

There is something passing sad;

None knows what woes come after,

And none can say where he steers,

And the echo of their laughter

Is wet with the dew of tears.

Ah, look upon their faces,

Seen passion-pale through the glare,

Their close and wild embraces,

Hot lips and flaming hair—

One would say some bitter madness

Were shed on their tender years,

Unsoftened into sadness

At the welcome well-spring of tears.

Deliriously turning

As a flame in the fretful fire,

With the blood in their faces burning

With the greatness of their desire—

Who knows what woes come after,

In a twilight of hopes and fears?

‘For the roots of the tree of laughter

Are close to the well of tears.’