On a carpet red and blue
Sits Betsinda, not quite two,
Tracing with baby-starfish hand
The patterns that a Persian planned.
Suddenly she sees me go
Towards the box whence dances flow,
Where embalmed together lie
Symphony and lullaby.
Out of her round and silken head
Fly patterns blue and patterns red;
She hoists her tiny self upright
And, shining-eyed, awaits delight.
Now at full speed the record spins;
The wizard needle-point begins
(Perceptive as a blind man's finger)
To thread the secret paths where linger
The ghosts of poignant violins.
Out of a limbo black as jet
It conjures horn and clarinet;
And spectral harp and phantom flute
And shades of oboes long since mute
It rouses, like the trump of doom,
To glory from their waxen tomb.
Then, as the tide of sound advances,
With grave delight Betsinda dances:
One arm flies up, the other down
To lift her Lilliputian gown,
And round she turns on clumsy, sweet,
Unrhythmical, enraptured feet;
And round and round again she goes
On hopeful, small, precarious toes.
Dance, Betsinda, dance, while I
Weave from this a memory;
Thinking, If I chance to hear
That record in some future year,
The needle-point shall conjure yet
Horn and harp and clarinet:
But O! it shall not conjure you-
Betsinda, dancing, not quite two.