How a Little Girl Danced

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 Cecelia, A white bird escaping The earth’s tangled skein!— The music of God In 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 God-head; 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.