A lady sits in her boudoir
Languid with leisure's disease,
World-weary and worn with ennui--
Society fails to please;
She craves fresh scenes more alluring
But where is anything new?
She's tired of luxury's gilding,
Weary of nothing to do.
Her life seems empty and useless,
A played out, frivolous game,
Where fawning counterfeits friendship
And love is only a name;
Heart-sick she sulks in seclusion
And scans in mental review,
Her social realm and the follies
She knows are weak and untrue.
Thus over her life she ponders,
Scorning, rebellious in vain,
Till impelled by social custom
She resumes her mask again;
Her world must not find her sighing--
She brilliantly plays her part,
And bravely the queen of pleasure
Smiles still with an aching heart.
Nearby, but a few blocks distant
From plenty's palatial homes,
There is a contrasting picture
Of strenuous life in the slums;
A pale girl toils in a garret,
From dawn till the sunset's glow,
And the sweat-shop wolf is prowling
For aye in the street below.
Stitch, stitch all day without ceasing,
Knowing no rest or delay.
Humanity pleads for mercy--
* * * * *
--_Margaret Scott Hall._
1994