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.