Classic Poem

The dancers danced in a quiet meadow
It was winter, the soft light lit in clouds
Of growing morning — their feet on the firm
Hillside sounded like a baker's business
Heard from the yard of his beamy barn-grange.
One piped, and the measured irregular riddle
Of the dance ran onward in tangling threads . . .
A thing of the village centuries old in charm.
With tunes from the earth they trod, and naturalness
Sweet like the need of pleasure of change.
For a lit room with panels gleaming
They practised this set by winter's dreaming
Of pictures as lovely as are in spring's range . . .
No candles, but the keen dew-drops shining . . .
And only the far jolly barking of the dog strange.