The crane, at his wits’ end,
Dances behind his mate.
She will not apprehend
His lonely, ecstatic state,
Nor that fine beat of the brain
Which makes the wings unclose,
Unclose, tremble, and close again:
Nothing of this she knows.
He is moving, moving in ecstasy,
The faintly flushed white wings
Gathered as if to fly.
He moves to certain strings
Stretched between earth and sky
That enforce a rigid stance.
Desire has fixed his eye
To execute his dance.
She and the distance are cut off
While he is thus engaged.
Whether spectators scoff
Means nothing. He is enraged,
Being the relict of love,
At her distracted mind,
Nor can he demonstrate enough
To make her look behind.
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