A Stately Saraband

"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."
While you and I, here we stand
To watch it fall where it must.

Hollow heads have clamped their brows
Down with music they can hear
Their whispered words are rushing past
Monoliths their feet can’t bear.

Anymore, oh nevermore
Can they glide, or waltz and play
With puppet strings in wrinkled hands
For their heads are turning gray.

But gray or gold, it matters not
Their battered feet will mark their names
On dancing floors and checquer-boards
Ghosts all playing at bigger games.