LINEAGE
I
A tea-room girl, she carries a tray
Through the day.
Of consciousness there is in her face
Hardly a trace,
Beyond a droop of the lip or lift
Of the brows in thanks for a generous gift.
She is reserved, indifferent, plain;
Yet with a something in her air
Which causes you to look again
At the wealth of her red-bronze hair.
II
Alone in her darkened room at night
Robed in white,
Sitting for hours in a high-backed chair,
Stately and fair,
With flashing eyes and lips proudly curled,
In thought she’s queen of a beautiful world,
Projecting, through a mental prism,
Her dream of power and pride of race—
The outcome of some royal atavism,
Impossible to trace.