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THE DANCE
Twisted leafless branches, scarred and battered tree trunks, clambering roots; all seem to assume the persona of the elements against which they labor for growth and survival. Climbing vines merge their destinies with the tree on which they depend and mimic their shapes in their own struggle for success. A savage yet noble beauty.
Labour is blossoming or dancing where
The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
--William Butler Yeats
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