Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/20

18 Here is my Palace tapestried with dreams. Ah! though to-night ten sous are all my treasure, While in my gaze immortal beauty gleams, Am I not dowered with wealth beyond all measure? Though in my ragged coat my songs I sing, King of my soul, I envy not the king.

Here is my Haven: it’s so quiet here; Only the scratch of pen, the candle's flutter; Shabby and bare and small, but O how dear! Mark you—my table with my work a-clutter, My shelf of tattered books along the wall, My bed, my broken chair—that’s nearly all.

Only four faded walls, yet mine, all mine. Oh, you fine folks, a pauper scorns your pity. Look, where above me stars of rapture shine; See, where below me gleams the siren city… Am I not rich?—a millionaire no less, If wealth be told in terms of Happiness.

Ten sous…. I think one can sing best of poverty when one is holding it at arm’s length. I’m sure that when I wrote these lines, fortune had for a moment tweaked me by the nose. To-night, however, I am truly down to ten sous. It is for that I have stayed in my room all day, rolled in my blankets and clutching my pen with clammy fingers. I must work, work, work. I must finish my book before poverty crushes me. I am not only writing for my living but for my life. Even to-day my Muse was mutinous. For hours and hours anxiously I stared at a paper that was blank;