Carols of an Old CodgerHer 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 goUp seven flights of stairs,
And on her bed her body throw,Too tired to say her prayers;
Yet not too sleepy to forgetHer cheap alarm to set.She dreams . . . That lonely bank-clerk boyWho comes each day for tea,--
Oh how his eyes light up with joyHer comeliness to see!
And yet he is too shy to speak,Far less to touch her cheek.He dreams . . . If only I were KingI'd make of her my Queen.
If I were laureate I'd singHer loveliness serene.
--How wistfully romance can hauntA city restaurant!For as I watch that pensive pairThere stirs within my heart
From Arcady an April airThat shames the sordid mart:
A sense of Spring and singing rills,--Love mid the daffodils.
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