Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/40

38 The humble garret where I dwell Is in that Quarter called the Latin; It isn’t spacious—truth to tell, There’s hardly room to swing a cat in. But what of that! It’s there I fight For food and fame, my Muse inviting, And all the day and half the night You’ll find me writing, writing, writing.

Now, it was in the month of May As, wrestling with a rhyme rheumatic, I chanced to look across the way, And lo! within a neighbor attic, A hand drew back the window shade, And there, a picture glad and glowing, I saw a sweet and slender maid, And she was sewing, sewing, sewing.

So poor the room, so small, so scant, Yet somehow oh, so bright and airy. There was a pink geranium plant, Likewise a very pert canary. And in the maiden’s heart it seemed Some fount of gladness must be springing. For as alone I sadly dreamed I heard her singing, singing, singing.