Classic Poem

A dreamlike leap
By England's Sleep!
He didn't doze,
He did a douze .
His legs arose
In curlicues.

He shrugged, “O.K., I'll make a run,”
And then went heavenward (that's one),
And five times crossed, and uncrossed five,
And then returned to earth alive.

And on TV, no less. Voilà!
Sleep's the king of entrechat.

Nijinsky, may he rest in peace—
Would that he were above the ground!
Nijinsky settled for but dix
Movements in a single bound.

A joy forever. He will last.
And yet . . . his mark has been surpassed.
Will Chaplin, too, be cast in doubt?
Will someone edge Caruso out?

But look! As consternation reigns
Among the world's balletomanes,
We see Nijinsky rise again.
His spirit jumps into our ken:

He climbs, descends, meanwhile with ease
Weaving patterns with his knees,
And stops just off the ground, and says,
To open with some humor, “ Treize .”

And now he's serious; now he soars
Sufficiently to cry “ Quatorze! ”
And now, although he starts to pant,
Up he goes—he's done a vingt!

And now he's really going good.
Nijinsky, folks, has just vingt-deux 'd.
We sense he could go on to cent-deux
But evidently doesn't want to.

For now, with one great closing spring,
He goes through untold scissoring
And disappears—a quantum leap—
And leaves the blinking world to Sleep.