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Weary Waitress

Robert Service

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.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 21 Jan 2021 12:52 AM | Viewed: 4741 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/4240/ | Viewed on 20 January 2021.
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