The Dance by R. S. Thomas

She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
Of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.

by R. S. Thomas

Other poems by 'R. S. Thomas'

Sorry

A Marriage

Children's Song

Poetry For Supper

A Blackbird Singing

Ninetieth Birthday

An Old Man

The Woman

A Peasant

Welsh Landscape

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