Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/123

Rh The fire of Inspiration’s dead. A humdrum way I go to-night, From all I hoped and dreamed remote: Too late… a better man must write That Little Book I Never Wrote.

Before I drink myself to death, God, let me finish up my Book! At night, I fear, I fight for breath, And wake up whiter than a spook; And crawl off to a bistro near, And drink until my brain is clear.

Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strength To write and write; and so I spend Day after day, until at length With joy and pain I’ll write The End: