Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/111

BOHEMIA And something of a piquant air

Defiant, as who must and dare

Steer her own shallop, right or wrong.

A certain noble nature schools,

In scorn of smaller, mincing rules,

The maidens of Bohemia.

X

But we pursued our pilgrimage

Far on, through hazy lengths of road,

Or crumbling cities gray with age;

And stayed in many a queer abode,

Days, seasons, years,—wherein were born

Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three;

And ever, though with travel worn,

Nor garnered for the morrow's morn,

We seemed a merry company,—

We, and the mates whom friendship, or

What sunshine fell within our door,

Drew to us in Bohemia.

XI

For Ambrose—priest without a cure—

Christened our babes, and drank the wine

He blessed, to make the blessing sure;

And Ralph, the limner—half-divine

The picture of my Blanche he drew,

As Saint Cecilia 'mong the caves,—

She singing; eyes a holy blue,

Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue,

Gold rippled into amber waves.

There, too, is wayward, wild Annette,

Danseuse and warbler and grisette,

True daughter of Bohemia.

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