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.