Classic Poem

She stood with the tall, painted turrets above her,
While I lingered and worshipped the boards where she trod —
From the rose in her hair to her instep I love her,
But what does she care for the love of a " god " ?
Ah, belle of the stage! if the gods should forsake you
Your bright star would fall like a stone from the sky;
You know 'tis the cheers of their godships that make you
And yet you begrudge them a blink from your eye.

While we sit in the darkness, and pay you our duty,
You give not e'en that which our worship demands;
You have eyes for the dress-circle swell and the beauty
Who think 'twould be " vulgah " to clap their white hands.
Yet, we have romances, and we have our trouble;
'Tis only the stage of our lives is so wide.
My Queen! I'm as worthy as any gay noble
Who strutted through Rome with a sword at his side!

Yet, bless her! God bless her! our fair prima donna
A lily, a daisy, a willow, a rose!
And brightly and long may the limelight shine on her
As belle of the ballet wherever she goes.
From the crown of her head to her instep I love her
With love that shall rest only under the sod —
For, search through the world and you'll never discover
A queen of the footlights in love with a " god " .