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. With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses
2. What the Sexton Said
3. When Bryan Speaks
4. What the Gray-Winged Fairy Said
5. The Drunkards in the Street

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