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.

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