Listen

It was the kind of voice that follows ears up and down,
as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.
Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it,
bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth,
but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget:
a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just
a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour. (Fitzgerald 13)