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 by verse,—

i watched, and worshiped you for reading!

you know not what restraint it took

to mind my etiquette, nor flout it

by telling you i know that book,

and asking what you thought about it.

i cursed myself for being shy—

i longed to make polite advances;

alas! i let the time go by,

and fortune gives no second chances.

you read, but still your face was calm—

(i scanned it closely, wretched sinner!)

you showed no sign—i felt a qualm—

and then the waitress brought your dinner.

those modest rhymes, you thought them fair?

and will you sometimes praise or quote them?

and do you ask why i should care?

oh, lady, it was i who wrote them!