James Whitcomb Riley - In BohemiaJames Whitcomb Riley - In Bohemia
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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.
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