As blanched—and bare—as Himalaya's peaks,
Light-vestured as a troop of dancing Greeks.
Waltz-measures ripple merrily.
Merrily? Yes; the music throbs with mirth,
Feet trip in time to it; yet what strange dearth
Of glee midst all these graces!
The quickening fire of spirit, passion, will,
Seems scarce to move these dancing forms or thrill
These irresponsive faces.
The Shadow smiled. "True, yet not true," he said.