Poem by Vachel Lindsay

How a Little Girl Sang

Ah, she was music in herself, 
A symphony of joyousness. 
She sang, she sang from finger tips, 
From every tremble of her dress. 
I saw sweet haunting harmony, 
An ecstasy, an ecstasy, 
In that strange curling of her lips, 
That happy curling of her lips. 
And quivering with melody 
Those eyes I saw, that tossing head. 

And so I saw what music was, 
Tho’ still accursed with ears of lead.

1. The Merciful Hand
2. The Black Hawk War of the Artists
3. What the Sexton Said
4. Above the Battle’s Front
5. On the Building of Springfield

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