Dancer
C
Clark Ashton Smith
0
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O dancer with the dove-swift feet and hands,
So palely swaying
Against the moon's replenished rondure,
Thou treadest not this autumn ground alone:
But in my heart, as in some high-piled press,
Dancing, thou crushest out with thy wan feet
A vintage strong, a wine sanguinolent
That shall restore the summer.
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