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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536386" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Death In A Ball-Room</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh many, many thus have died, alas,<br>Children, poor things! The grave will have its prey.<br>Some flowers must still be mown down with the grass,<br>And in life's wild quadrille the dancers gay<br>Must trample here and there a weak one in their way.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, thus it is. After the day the night,<br>A night that has no waking. Who shall tell?<br>A joyous crowd sits down to feast aright,<br>But always some one guest, where all seemed well,<br>Gets up and leaves his chair and hears the passing bell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have seen many go; cheeks rosy pink,<br>And blue eyes wide as if entranced with song,<br>And forms so frail it seemed that on death's brink<br>A bird had bent the branch to which it clung,<br>So frail the body was, the tyrant soul so strong.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One knew I who in her delirium<br>Uttered a name which troubled all around,<br>And then, like a lost chaunt for ever dumb,<br>She left us, smiling. In her breast we found<br>Some faded violets hid, by a blue ribbon bound.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poor flowers, poor souls, and only born to die;<br>Fair fledglings torn untimely from their nest;<br>Halcyons our Earth had borrowed from the sky<br>For one short Spring, and then, as if confessed<br>Unworthy that high charge, given back to Heaven's breast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such have I known; and such, alas was one<br>Whom now I picture sadly here. Her eyes<br>Had gleams where April's fitful beauty shone.<br>I know not why she heaved so many sighs.<br>She was sixteen, perhaps, and cared not to be wise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet think not it was love that was her death.<br>Love had no song for her of any tone.<br>Her heart had never beat too fast for brerth.<br>Though all men called her pretty, there was none<br>To whisper that soft fable in her ear alone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No. It was dancing, dancing which she loved<br>Beyond all else, that caused her thus to die.<br>Her very dust, methinks, by night is moved<br>When the pale moon beneath heaven's canopy<br>Holds revel with the clouds in the quick--circling sky.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Balls she adored. Each evening that she danced<br>She thought three days and dreamed three nights of it,<br>And visions brave where goblin partners pranced<br>Beset her pillows, till she could not sit<br>Still in her bed but she must rise and dance a bit.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By night and day her fancy framed the sight<br>Of scarves and flowers and ribbons bright as noon,<br>And jewels gleaming with unearthly light,<br>And skirts of gossamer in wild festoon,<br>And lace like spiders' webs of spiders in the moon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the ball opened, she was first to come<br>With her proud father, honest gentleman.<br>Like a little mouse she ran about the room.<br>Oh how she frowned and rattled with her fan<br>And beat her pretty foot, until the dance began!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It did us good to see her dance. Her feet<br>Twinkled like stars in a dark firmament.<br>They moved so fast they made our pulses beat<br>Lest those frail laces should be overspent<br>And the white satin shoes be whirled away or rent.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She was all movement, laughter, and mad joy.<br>Child! How we followed her with our sad eyes,<br>Forgetful of the fever and annoy<br>And rush and dust and nameless miseries,<br>The punishment of souls too proud or sad or wise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But she, borne off upon her pleasure's wing,<br>Whirled round and round. She never stopped for breath.<br>She seemed to drink the fiddler's fiddling in.<br>She seemed to smell the flowers of every wreath,<br>To dance with every step the dancers danced beneath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Twas joy to her to leap and bound along,<br>To feel as though she had a thousand feet,<br>To grow so giddy in the turning throng<br>She knew not where she was. Her heart so beat<br>She could not see the chairs to find herself a seat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas, alas that ever morn should come<br>On such sweet nights! Alas that she must stand<br>Those hours of woe in the chill waiting room.<br>Oh, often ere the coach was at command,<br>The dawn had touched her shoulders with its naked hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis ever a sad waking the next day.<br>No laughter now, but only a dull cough.<br>The crumpled dresses have been put away.<br>Pleasure is dead, and there stands Pleasure's scoff,<br>Fever with cheeks all red and tongue all white and rough.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She died at sixteen, happy, loved by all.<br>Died as she left off dancing. All of us<br>Wore mourning long in token of that ball.<br>She died upon the threshold of the house<br>In her white robe and wreath and sable--lined burnous.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Death took her thus that she might ever be<br>Dressed for new dancing. When she wakes again<br>She shall be ready for Eternity,<br>And, if in Heaven such raptures are not vain,<br>Shall tread fair measures still to seraph angels' strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfrid+Scawen+Blunt">Wilfrid Scawen Blunt</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536386" data-title="Death In A Ball-Room de Wilfrid Scawen Blunt" data-description="Oh many, many thus have died, alas,
Children, poor things! The grave will have its prey.
Some flowers must still be mown down with the grass,
And in life's wild quadrille the dancers gay
Must trample here and there a weak one in their way.

Yes, t..."></div>
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