Labor 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? 
 
 		
 		The Tower, 1928. Among School Children