Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/124

122 Then let this carcase rot; I give The world my Book–my Book will live.

For every line is tense with truth, There’s hope and joy on every page; A cheer, a clarion call to Youth, A hymn, a comforter to Age: All’s there that I was meant to be, My part divine, the God in me.

It’s of my life the golden sum; Ah! who that reads this Book of mine, In stormy centuries to come, Will dream I rooted with the swine? Behold! I give mankind my best: What does it matter, all the rest?

It’s this that makes sublime my day It’s this that makes me struggle on. Oh, let them mock my mortal clay, My spirit’s deathless as the dawn; Oh, let them shudder as they look… I’ll be Immortal in my Book.

And so beside the sullen Seine I fight with dogs for filthy food, Yet know that from my sin and pain Will soar serene a Something Good; Exultantly from shame and wrong A Right, a Glory and a Song.