Her smile ineffably is sweet,
Devinely she is slim;
Yet oh how weary are her feet,
How aches her every limb!
Thank God it’s near to closing time,
–Merciful midnight chime.
Then in her mackintosh she’ll go
Up seven flights of stairs,
And on her bed her body throw,
Too tired to say her prayers;
Yet not too sleepy to forget
Her cheap alarm to set.
She dreams . . . That lonely bank-clerk boy
Who comes each day for tea,–
Oh how his eyes light up with joy
Her comeliness to see!
And yet he is too shy to speak,
Far less to touch her cheek.
He dreams . . . If only I were King
I’d make of her my Queen.
If I were laureate I’d sing
Her loveliness serene.
–How wistfully romance can haunt
A city restaurant!
For as I watch that pensive pair
There stirs within my heart
From Arcady an April air
That shames the sordid mart:
A sense of Spring and singing rills,
–Love mid the daffodils.
