And what would I do in heaven, pray, Me with my dancing feet, And limbs like apple boughs that sway When the gusty rain winds beat?

And how would I thrive in a perfect place Where dancing would be sin, With not 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 sing the faery tunes that brim My heart from end to end.

The wistful angels down in hell Will smile to see my face, And understand, because they fell From that all-perfect place.