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,