Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/57

Rh A little garden by the sea, A little boat that dips and swings… Take wealth, take fame, but leave to me, O Lord of Life, just Little Things.

He’s yonder, on the terrace of the Café de la Paix, The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day. He’s sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair; He’s staring at the passers with his customary stare. He never takes his piercing eyes from off that moving throng, That current cosmopolitan meandering along: Dark diplomats from Martinique, pale Rastas from Peru, An Englishman from Bloomsbury, a Yank from Kalamazoo; A poet from Montmartre’s heights, a dapper little Jap, Exotic citizens of all the countries on the map;