Ballet

To Gustave Moreau

In their helmets of azure crystal, the baladines,

Whose stepping toes measured to the strings of kinnors

Jingle under cloths of tulle stuffed with gold,

Exult them with their pallid eyes of paladines.

Fleeces wild upon their lips incarnadine,

Arms heavy with barbaric bracelets, in galore

Flights toward the lunar gleam of the décor,

They murmurate withal in muted voice malign:

“We are, o mortal men, dancers of Desire,

Salomes whose bodies writhing all with pleasure

Delude your lucky love toward our perverse arcana,

Prostrate yourselves in great hosannas, of an evening!

For, in sunups within incense-burners rising,

Upon our cymbals we’ll make thunderate your crania.”

Stuart Merrill