Chorus Girl
Her voice was like rose-fragrance waltzing in the wind. She seemed a shadow stained with shadow colors Swinging through waves of sunlight. Perhaps her heart was an old minstrel Sleepily pawing at his little mandolin.
Maxwell Bodenheim
Her voice was like rose-fragrance waltzing in the wind. She seemed a shadow stained with shadow colors Swinging through waves of sunlight. Perhaps her heart was an old minstrel Sleepily pawing at his little mandolin.
The speaker watches a chorus girl in motion, turning her into a strange, delicate mixture of sense impressions. Her voice is not described as sound alone but as rose-fragrance waltzing in the wind—sweet, fleeting, hard to hold onto.
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