AT THE WOMEN'S CLUBS

Romance abides in humble things:—

How commonplace the precious ore!

The shining vision sometimes springs

From too much cheese the night before!

The man who seeks the True Romance

Among the high aristocrats,

Forgets the crowning circumstance

My dear, he wears the sweetest spats!

Some little gutter-dabbling child,

Some shabby clerk whom all despise —

On him Olympus may have smiled

He has those dark romantic eyes!

Some shimmer from the lustred dawn

Of hitherto unguessed to-morrows,

Imperishable laurels drawn

I think he must have secret sorrows!

Immeasurable arcs of sky,

Vast spaces where the great winds shout,

His eye must pierce, his hand must try....

Too bad that he is growing stout!

His heart is like a parchment scroll

Whereon the beautiful, the true,

Are registered; and in his soul

I do love poetry, do n't you?

Romance abides in humble things,

And humble people understand

That feathers from an angel's wings

I must just go and shake his hand!