Girl dancer! Oh you shifting
Of all that passes into steps: how you manage that!
And the eddy at the end, a tree made from a vortex,
Does it not take full possession of the swirling year?

And the tip of your tree, does it not blossom
Quietly above you, from your spinning? Is it not
Your limitless warmth, the sun,
The summer, its heat?

But your tree of ecstasy bears,
Gives quiet fruit: the flagon streaked with ripeness,
And the vase riper still.

And there is this image: as you were turning,
Your eyebrow was a dark streak
Quickly drawn, but it remained.