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.