The Ballet

They crush together--a rustling heap of flesh -
Of more than flesh, a heap of souls; and then
      They part, enmesh,
   And crush together again,
Like the pink petals of a too sanguine rose
   Frightened shut just when it blows.



Though all alike in their tinsel livery,
And indistinguishable at a sweeping glance,
      They muster, maybe,
   As lives wide in irrelevance;
A world of her own has each one underneath,
   Detached as a sword from its sheath.
Daughters, wives, mistresses; honest or false, sold, bought;
Hearts of all sizes; gay, fond, gushing, or penned,
      Various in thought
      Of lover, rival, friend;
Links in a one-pulsed chain, all showing one smile,
   Yet severed so many a mile!