Lady,
You, who are pattering to your carriage door
In high-heeled shoes,
Your hat spraying delicate, white feathers,
Soft furs about your throat
And pointed designs, crusted with diamonds,
Pinned to your frail blouse—
Your coat was made by the best of tailors
Who patted and pinned and smoothed it with infinite care
So that it would give you ‘long lines.’
And your figure has been stiffened rigidly
Into the proper shape.
You are hung with costly things,
You carry them about with you—
Even the intricate embroidery on your stockings is a cause for wonder—
And when you think of them
Your little, muffled mind glows with satisfaction.
But you are not half so beautiful
For all your trouble,
As the young workman who just went swinging down the street,
His body lithe and strong and free as a whip in the wind!