Classic Poem

Bodies that gleam like rare bronze in the fire,
Voices that chant of an ancient desire;
Leaping and gliding and telling a story,
Weaving in pantomime figures of glory.
Bending and crouching in postures of grace,
Stamping and circling in rhythmical pace,
To stolid drum's tunking and unchanging beat,
As autumn leaves blown drift the young warriors' feet;
For to-morrow they follow on fair Danger's trail,
And to-morrow—to-morrow the women will wail.