In Bohemia

Ha! My dear! I'm back again-- Vendor of Bohemia's wares! Lordy! How it pants a man Climbing up those awful stairs! Well, I've made the dealer say Your sketch _might_ sell, anyway! And I've made a publisher Hear my poem, Kate, my dear. In Bohemia, Kate, my dear-- Lodgers in a musty flat On the top floor--living here Neighborless, and used to that,-- Like a nest beneath the eaves, So our little home receives Only guests of chirping cheer-- We'll be happy, Kate, my dear! Under your north-light there, you At your easel, with a stain On your nose of Prussian blue, Paint your bits of shine and rain; With my feet thrown up at will O'er my littered window-sill, I write rhymes that ring as clear As your laughter, Kate, my dear. Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair-- Bite my pencil-tip and gaze At you, mutely mooning there O'er your 'Aprils' and your 'Mays!' Equal inspiration in Dimples of your cheek and chin, And the golden atmosphere Of your paintings, Kate, my dear! _Trying_! Yes, at times it is, To clink happy rhymes, and fling On the canvas scenes of bliss, When we are half famishing!-- When your 'jersey' rips in spots, And your hat's 'forget-me-nots' Have grown tousled, old and sere-- It is trying, Kate, my dear! But--as sure--_some_ picture sells, And--sometimes--the poetry-- Bless us! How the parrot yells His acclaims at you and me! How we revel then in scenes Of high banqueting!--sardines-- Salads--olives--and a sheer Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear! Even now I cross your palm, With this great round world of gold!-- 'Talking wild?' Perhaps I am-- Then, this little five-year-old!-- Call it anything you will, So it lifts your face until I may kiss away that tear Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.