There's a palpable anticipation, expectation
In the pre-dawn semi-darkness, semi-stillness.
There's an expectation, hesitation

The Lord strides amongst the crowd-
Weaving his silver-way through the maze,
Transfixing all in his silver gaze.
Heads all bowed and statue-proud,
Mesmerised the dancers stand
Assume dormancy at touch of his hand.

There's a palpable anticipation, expectation
In the pre-dawn semi-darkness, semi-stillness
There's an expectation, hesitation.
Like so many mannequins displayed-
Attired all in finery-faded,
Green tunic and gown-jaded.
All the dancers in masquerade.
Bejewelled with dust and grime;
Waiting for the Time.

There's a palpable anticipation, expectation
Something softly waking-walking.
There's an expectation, hesitation.
The Lady yawns and wakes-
Brushes, delightedly, off the dustiness,
Shakes off the mustiness.
A gown of living-gold she takes.
She, of glowing-grace,
Over the Western horizon shows her face.

There's a palpable anticipation, expectation
Something softly waking-walking
There's an expectation, hesitation.
The Lady dances amongst the crowd-
Weaves her golden way through the maze,
Waking all with her golden-gaze.
The dancers' brows unbowed
And weary-shadows from countenances flee
At her golden-decree.

There's a palpable anticipation, expectation
In the mellow morning mist's embrace
There's an expectation, hesitation.

The faded-jaded greens bleed to gold-
The melody crescendos might'ly
Dancers all step brightly.
They need not be told
And fresh autumn masques are donned afore
The Ball begins once more.