Dilettante

He knows that every woman there

Will turn impulsively to stare
As he strolls in, though men with whom
He stands so slight fill all the room.
His lively step, his merry eyes
Mark him as one whose day defies
All heavy care, each bright hour flung
Away in joie de vivre. Among
The hand-wrought glass he walks with ease,
 Prefers to toy with it than to please
The anxious ones who would divert
His mind to sounder topics. Alert
To smiles, he shows his lack of learning
By looking on the crowd, then turning

Toward the one whose jewels glitter-dance,
While she displays them for his glance
And words, whose depth she hopes to find.
Why is it women of clear mind
Will shed all pride in such pursuit,
And great men bend for that small fruit
His pleasure and approval hold?
The reason is, he's three years old.

E. M. WILKINS.