A Dancing Girl By Frances Sargent Osgood

                                    Andrey Atroshenko Tancovschica s veerom
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.