A Dancing Girl
By Frances Sargent Osgood
SHE comes—the spirit of the dance!
And but for those large, eloquent eyes,
Where passion speaks in every glance,
She ’d seem a wanderer from the skies.
So light that, gazing breathless there,
Lest the celestial dream should go,
You ’d think the music in the air
Waved the fair vision to and fro!
Or that the melody’s sweet flow
Within the radiant creature played,
And those soft wreathing arms of snow
And white sylph feet the music made.
Now gliding slow with dreamy grace,
Her eyes beneath their lashes lost,
Now motionless, with lifted face,
And small hands on her bosom crossed.
And now with flashing eyes she springs,—
Her whole bright figure raised in air,
As if her soul had spread its wings
And poised her one wild instant there!
She spoke not; but, so richly fraught
With language are her glance and smile,
That, when the curtain fell, I thought
She had been talking all the while.