Flower

The dusty parlor, the warbler cage

The dirty floor of the old-fashioned stage

Once the young ladies left in elegant steps

The homely creature crept in for her reps.

In a baggy smock with a wretched face

Clogs on her feet upset every rare grace

Tottering, tired, lines on her brow

At length to retire with the shabbiest bow.

From sunup to sundown she lugged the fuel

Filling every wood-box and hod in the school

Her frail back bore the brunt of each load

Whether it rained, it shone, or brutally snowed

Not a pretty feature

Providence her bestowed.

The dance-master, old

French at glance

Grew to despise every art of his dance

Cries of anger, tore at his tress

Scolded every young lady in a formal dress.

His humor soured every passing scowl

Drank and drank to pass the hour

Wept and wept the fitful drudge

Behind the curtain to scrub and scrunge.

The young ladies, numbered nine

Pout and whine to pass the time

The silken slippers, the dainty airs

Covered worse than the grime downstairs.

The loveliest voice pierced the loneliest heart

With snide remarks until they depart.

The winter show loomed dark ahead

The dance-master’s shouts rang out dread

The young ladies sobbed, untying their shoes

From the rosiest colors to the saddest of hues.

The plain creature peered through velvet holes

Smiling with hope through the ugliest moles

She dared to advance with gingerly gait

To show the world her dream innate.

How she wished she had never been born!

The malicious laughter, the withering scorn

Rang in her ears, the fountain of tears

Sloshed down her cheek at the mock of the peers.

The cold of the floor her new repose

Filling the basin to scrub the clothes

She’d never wear, and never know

Applauding hands all in a row. 

As the clock struck its nightly hours In her place she found the flowers

Crumpled, old, but scented sweet

She held them close in gladdened sleep.

With faith renewed the following week

She smiled and had quickened to speak

To the cook, the maid, on all ears deaf

Finally, to the dance-master himself.

He scowled and spat without remorse

With no more grace than a carter’s horse

She firmed her lips and straightened proud

Conviction in her clear voice loud:

“I seldom lay down and cry I swear to you, I always try!

I’m quick to heed and quick to learn I will practice from eve to morn I know that nothing here is free

All I need is someone to believe in me.”

The dance-master, with gloomy eyes

Washed his hands and rolled the dice:

“God made you stubborn like a mule

Suppose I break you until the yule

After, I’ll need you naught May the devil curse what you have wrought!”

Wrathful, he stormed away

Lacking all his French sashay

And the glowing little drudge

Victorious to her corner trudged.

As he promised, he heaped the gruel

On her fragile back with eyesight cruel

Blistered feet and numbing toes

With every pain persistence grows.

And the young ladies numbered nine Greyed his hair and drained his wine. The young ladies lined up prim

In front of her, so fair and slim.

She practiced from dawn to dusk

Her former self a dusty husk

She barely ate and barely slept

Yet her cheeks glowed, her eyes unwept.

And every time the shabby flowers

Slipped in her fingers for nightly hours.

The dance-master, as stern as steel 

Still had a spark of French genteel

A partiality for the odd little dear

Who’d someday become a fair compeer

Became a daughter for him to rear.

Steady work and perspiring grit

Soon the shoes began to fit

Her nimble feet leapt fast and far

She shone in class like a shooting star. The young ladies, nine in all

Who tripped and slipped with noble gall

Watched with envy from the bench

Waiting to punish the upstart wench.

She sailed, cavorted, pranced, and spun

Twirling tulle and eyes that stun

The Frenchman gave up his wine

Just to watch his favorite shine.

Soon the winter show did dawn

But the starlet, she was gone!

Empty bed and stolen coat

Nothing left to her devote.

The Frenchman left, depressed

With anxiety ridden grief suppressed Whilst the dapper ladies nine

Folded their hands and sat to dine

No remorse in their smiles defined.

The violins whispered, the trumpets wailed

Still no dancer leapt and sailed

The piano mourned in silver sound

Not a silence so profound

As the empty stage, and warbler cage

The parlor empty of all engage.

The cook, the maid, all ears stayed

With sympathy to her they prayed

What a darling child she’d been!

What a pity, what a sin.

The flowers stopped coming to her bed

Cold and empty without her head.

The school closed within a week

Dusty and drab and grey and beat

The winter snowed, and frost it nipped

As ruthless as a hunter whipped.

The Frenchman, grey and glum

Drank and drank all his rum 

Until the weak chirp of an early wren

Let his old eyes see the girl again.

Emaciated and hollow-eyed

She crawled over to his side

On his shoulder rested her dirty head

Nothing between them ever said.

She smiled with holes in her teeth

As if she still wore the dancer’s wreath

She stood up to lift her feet

To slip and fall into the sleet.

His voice hoarse with grief

He spoke, with tender brief:

“You still look beautiful to me

Through the dirt and hardship I see

You inspired me sublime I still believe in you this time.

Forgive me, dear, I’ve always erred In life I’ve always ran so scared I took to drink to forget the woe

Of the torment it takes to grow. What have I done to you, dear child To have you so cruelly defiled?

What have seen your eyes so dear To break my heart with frigid fear? “

She looked up at him and smiled

Like the purest, like a child.

He wept and wept and howled

Tore his hair with tormented power.

But the crumpled flower at his heel

Led his broken heart in time to heal.