At the Women's Clubs

Romance abides in humble things: —
How commonplace the precious ore!
The shining vision sometimes springs
The one man:
From too much cheese the night before!

The man who seeks the True Romance
Among the high aristocrats,
Forgets the crowning circumstance
Mrs. Smith:
My dear, he wears the sweetest spats!

Some little gutter-dabbling child,
Some shabby clerk whom all despise —
On him Olympus may have smiled
Mrs. Brown:
He has those dark romantic eyes!

Some shimmer from the lustred dawn
Of hitherto unguessed to-morrows,
Imperishable laurels drawn
Mrs. Jones:
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. . . .
Mrs. Robinson:
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
Mrs. Smith:
I do love poetry, don't you?

Romance abides in humble things,
And humble people understand
That feathers from an angel's wings
Mrs. Brown:
I must just go and shake his hand!
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