On Fifth Street, in a small café, Upstairs (our tables were adjacent),
I saw you lunching yesterday,
And felt a secret thrill complacent.
 
You sat, and, waiting for your meal,
You read a book. As I was eating,
Dear me, how keen you made me feel
To give you just a word of greeting!
 
And as your hand the pages turned,
I watched you, dumbly contemplating—
O how exceedingly I yearned
To ask the girl to keep you waiting.
 
I wished that I could be the maid
To serve your meal or crumb your cloth, or
Beguile some hazard to my aid
To know your verdict on that author!
 
And still you read. You dropped your purse,
And yet, adorably unheeding,
You turned the pages, verse ............