The lady cannot sing a note, There is a languor in her throat Beyond all healing, She does not act at all, it seems, Except in early morning dreams-- She lacks the feeling. Her feet are pretty, but methinks, The weighty and phlegmatic Sphinx Could trip as lightly-- And yet she is a regular, Serene and well established star Who twinkles nightly. And Solomon for all his stir, Had not a single jewel on her, Nor did his capers Procure him even half the space For publication of his face In ancient papers. Her gowns, her furs, her limousines Would catch the eye of stately queens In any city-- She cannot sing, or dance or act, But then I have remarked the fact-- Her feet are pretty. THE STAR IS WAITING TO SEE THE MANAGER A moment since, the office boy, Invisible as Night itself, Reposed on some dim-curtained shelf And tasted peace, without alloy. Secure from all the day's alarms, Of boss and bell the very jinx, He gazed immobile as the Sphinx On pompous front and painted charms. Now out of interstellar space, Beyond the sunlight and the storm, Appears that lightning-laden form, That toothful smile, that cryptic face. Whence came he, who that breathes can tell?-- He was so hid from mortal eyes, Perhaps he fell from paradise, Perhaps they chased him out of hell. But now his heels show everywhere, A dozen doors are opened wide, He stands before, behind, beside, He fills the ether and the air. Far quicker than a wink or beck, Far sleeker than a juvenile, He barely tops the giant smile That wreathes his forehead and his neck. Oh! sudden gold evolved from dross! Who wrought the shining miracle? What magic cast the dazzling spell?-- The star is here to see the boss! THE JESTER All the fool's gold of the world, All your dusty pageantries, All your reeking praise of Self, All your wise men's sophistries, All that springs of golden birth, Is not half the jester's worth! Who's the jester? He is one, Who behind the scenes hath been, Caught Life with his make-up off, Found him but a harlequin Cast to play a tragic part-- And the two laughed, heart to heart! IN A CAFE Her face was the face of Age, with a pitiful smudge of Youth, Carmine and heavy and lined, like a jester's mask on Truth; And she laughed from the red lips outward, the laugh of the brave who die, But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!" She pressed the glass to her lips as one presses the lips of love, And I said: "Are you always merry, and what is the art thereof?" And she laughed from the red lips outward the laugh of the brave who die, But a ghost in her laughter murmured, "I lie--I lie!" TO A CABARET SINGER