How a Little Girl Danced

Dedicated to Lucy Bates

(Being a reminiscence of certain private theatricals.)



    Oh, cabaret dancer, I know a dancer,
    Whose eyes have not looked on the feasts that are vain.
    I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
    Whose soul has no bond with the beasts of the plain:
    Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer,
    With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.

    Oh, thrice-painted dancer, vaudeville dancer,
    Sad in your spangles, with soul all astrain,
    I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
    Whose laughter and weeping are spiritual gain,
    A pure-hearted, high-hearted maiden evangel,
    With strength the dark cynical earth to disdain.

    Flowers of bright Broadway, you of the chorus,
    Who sing in the hope of forgetting your pain:
    I turn to a sister of Sainted Cecilia,
    A white bird escaping the earth's tangled skein: -
    The music of God is her innermost brooding,
    The whispering angels her footsteps sustain.

    Oh, proud Russian dancer:    praise for your dancing.
    No clean human passion my rhyme would arraign.
    You dance for Apollo with noble devotion,
    A high cleansing revel to make the heart sane.
    But Judith the dancer prays to a spirit
    More white than Apollo and all of his train.

    I know a dancer who finds the true Godhead,
    Who bends o'er a brazier in Heaven's clear plain.
    I know a dancer, I know a dancer,
    Who lifts us toward peace, from this earth that is vain:
    Judith the dancer, Judith the dancer,
    With foot like the snow, and with step like the rain.

Vachel Lindsay

Vachel Lindsay was an American poet known for his innovative performances of his poetry, which combined spoken word with music and theatrics. Born in Springfield, Illinois, Lindsay's work often revolved around American history and culture, reflecting his progressive social views. He played a significant role in the early 20th-century American poetry scene, influencing contemporaries and later poets with his dynamic style and passionate delivery.

Vachel Lindsay

The Traveller-heart

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

My Lady in her White Silk Shawl

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

To Lady Jane

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

I Heard Immanuel Singing

Vachel Lindsay, Simple Poetry

English

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Only a dancing girl,
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With many a hackneyed wile,
With ungrammatical lips,
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She acts a palpable lie,
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No airy fairy she,
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From a highly impossible tree,
In a highly impossible scene
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From bunions, coughs, or cold.

And stately dames that bring
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The Dancing Elf*

    I woke to daylight, and to find
    A wreath of fading vine-leaves, rough entwined,
    Lying, as dropped in hasty flight, upon my floor.

    Dropped from thy head, sweet Spirit of the night,
    Who cam'st, with footstep light,
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    Playing throughout the hours that go too soon,
    Ready to fly at the approach of morn,
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The Lonely Dancer

I had no heart to join the dance,
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Ah! light-winged music out of France,
    Let other feet glide to and fro,
Weaving new patterns of romance
    For bosoms of new-fallen snow.

But leave me thus where I may hear
    The leafy rustle of the waltz,
The shell-like murmur in my ear,
    The silken whisper fairy-false
Of unseen rainbows circling near,
    And the glad shuddering of the walls.

Another dance the dancers spin,
    A shadow-dance of mystic pain,
And other partners enter in
    And dance within my lonely brain -
The swaying woodland shod in green,
    The ghostly dancers of the rain;

The lonely dancers of the sea,
    Foam-footed on the sandy bar,
The wizard dance of wind and tree,

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An "Idyl" Of The Ball.

I.

In reel, in waltz, in lancer's maze,
    She moved with pretty air of grace,
And all the ball-room's brilliant blaze
    Seemed borrowed brightness from her face!
O, winsome maid, demure and sweet!
    I'll ne'er forget when first I met her,
And saw the dainty slippered feet
    Glide o'er the floor at Linnietta!


II.

O, dreams of youth and beauty rare,
    What rose-hued visions thou canst paint!
But none in loveliness compare
    With her who seemed Love's patron saint!
Her pictured image haunts the mind,
    And, oh, I never can forget her,
Nor rarer pleasure hope to find
    Than dance with her at Linnietta!


III.

Arrayed in softly flowing gown,
    The love-light flashing from her eyes--
...

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How a Little Girl Sang

    Ah, she was music in herself,
    A symphony of joyousness.
    She sang, she sang from finger tips,
    From every tremble of her dress.
    I saw sweet haunting harmony,
    An ecstasy, an ecstasy,
    In that strange curling of her lips,
    That happy curling of her lips.
    And quivering with melody
    Those eyes I saw, that tossing head.

    And so I saw what music was,
    Tho' still accursed with ears of lead.

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Chopin.

    I.


A    dream of interlinking hands, of feet
Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof,
Of the entangling waltz.    Bright eyebeams meet,
Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.
Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering glow
Of branching lights sets off the changeful charms
Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, dazzling snow
Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
Hark to the music!    How beneath the strain
Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs
One fundamental chord of constant pain,
The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.
So yearns, though all the dancing waves rejoice,
The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.



    II.


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