All those trees bend in and in
till the end is mere and thin.
Is there really an end
or does it go on forever?
A tree here,
a tree far,
a waltzer there,
a sleeping car.
Well now who's this waltzer,
waltzing right under the trees,
dancing his feet and knees?
Is he really there,
or is it plain, fine fancy-
dancing below the bending night,
waltzing across the city street?
1 comment:
This is the poem you showed me. I like it even more then the first time I read it. The first four lines could be a poem by themselves.
Post a Comment