But the cold dew spoiled their instruments
And they play for the foolish queen no more.
Instead those sturdy malcontents
Play sharps and flats in my kitchen floor.
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.
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