By funeral pyres I've trod the solemn measure For the still dead, and those about to die. When warriors' spears to death made salutation, 'twas mine to dance, and stir their blood like wine, And see their mighty limbs, at ease and slothful, Made furious by the rhythmic swing of mine. I've seen the dull red ﬂame of wakened passion Flood the fierce face of him I danced before. I've danced the dance the fiends within me prompted, Till women's eyes grew cold and looked no more. In many lands; through all the long past ages, Now feasted and now scorned; the jewel, the jest, Were mine while youth with buoyant step was by me, Youth passed, and with him hurried all the rest. But mine, 'tis ever mine to lead men blinded, To sway them as Salome did of old. The dance of death, of joy, of love, of passion, These will be mine, until the earth grows cold.