She of the Dancing Feet Sings
(To Ottie Graham)
And what would I do in heaven, pray.
Me wih my dancing feet,
And limbs like apple boughs that sawy
When the gusty rain winds beat?
And how would I thrive in a perfect place
Where dancing would be sin,
With nor a man to love my face,
Nor an arm to hold me in?
The seraphs and the cherubim
Would be too proud to bend
To Sind the faery tunes that end.
The wistful angels down in hell
Will smile to see my face,
And understand, because the fell
From that all-perfect place.
From On These I Stand (1947) by Countee Cullen, 1925.