In Bohemia. (Rhymes of Rainy Days)

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.