Classic Poem

“Oh, Francie, sell me your fingers
And I will pay you well!”
Sweet flowed that voice, the singer's,
As gillyflowers smell.

“Your fingers are a witch's,
White as china clay,
Thin as willow switches
Pointed up to pray.

“For your dinted knuckles
And blue printed wrist
I'll give you my buckles
Of paste and amethyst.”

“I will sell my fingers
If you will sell your tongue;
Your voice is a singer's
Whose veins run song.

“If apples sprang from heaven
Instead of from the ground,
Their juice could not even
Be sweet as that sound.”

“Oh, sell your smallest finger!”
“Your voice is all I fancy!”
“No, no!” replied the singer.
“Oh, no, no!” cried Francie.