(On Hearing She Was Leaving The Moving-Pictures For The Stage.) Mary Pickford, Doll Divine, Year By Year, And Every Day At The Moving-Picture Play, You Have Been My Valentine. Once A Free-Limbed Page In Hose, Baby-Rosalind In Flower, Cloakless, Shrinking, In That Hour How Our Reverent Passion Rose, How Our Fine Desire You Won. Kitchen-Wench Another Day, Shapeless, Wooden Every Way. Next, A Fairy From The Sun. Once You Walked A Grown-Up Strand Fish-Wife Siren, Full Of Lure, Snaring With Devices Sure Lads Who Murdered On The Sand. But On Most Days Just A Child Dimpled As No Grown-Folk Are, Cold Of Kiss As Some North Star, Violet From The Valleys Wild. Snared As Innocence Must Be, Fleeing, Prisoned, Chained, Half-Dead - At The End Of Tortures Dread Roaring Cowboys Set You Free. Fly, O Song, To Her To-Day, Like A Cowboy Cross The Land. Snatch Her From Belasco'S Hand And That Prison Called Broadway. All The Village Swains Await One Dear Lily-Girl Demure, Saucy, Dancing, Cold And Pure, Elf Who Must Return In State.