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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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