And all throughout a Breughel matinee
Those buxom waltzes rang. Good people, cried
The fiddler, dance! Fiddler, the dancers cried,
Addressing perhaps the sun, teach us this joy
That is no more than dancing it in shade
Or on bright streets, teach us this simple trade.
The fiddler was a man of consequence,
Responsive to a morning’s imperfections;
He found too many elbows in the dance
And too much pity in the cobblestones;
And flowers shriveling in the pride of hands
Dropped to the ground as dancers in a dance.
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