And when we're tired of that, my friend, oh, you will come with me; And we will seek the sunlit roads that lie beside the sea.

We'll know the joy the gipsy knows, the freedom nothing mars, The golden treasure-gates of dawn, the mintage of the stars.

We'll smoke our pipes and watch the pot, and feed the crackling fire, And sing like two old jolly boys, and dance to heart's desire; We'll climb the hill and ford the brook and camp upon the moor . . .

Old chap, let's haste, I'm mad to taste the Joy of Being Poor.

V

My Garret, Montparna.s.se,

June 1914.

My Neighbors

_To rest my f.a.gged brain now and then, When wearied of my proper labors, I lay aside my lagging pen And get to thinking on my neighbors; For, oh, around my garret den There's woe and poverty a-plenty, And life's so interesting when A lad is only two-and-twenty.

Now, there's that artist gaunt and wan, A little card his door adorning; It reads: "Je ne suis pour personne", A very frank and fitting warning.

I fear he's in a sorry plight; He starves, I think, too proud to borrow, I hear him moaning every night: Maybe they'll find him dead to-morrow._

Room 4: The Painter Chap

He gives me such a bold and curious look, That young American across the way, As if he'd like to put me in a book (Fancies himself a poet, so they say.) Ah well! He'll make no "doc.u.ment" of me.

I lock my door. Ha! ha! Now none shall see. . . .

Pictures, just pictures piled from roof to floor, Each one a bit of me, a dream fulfilled, A vision of the beauty I adore, My own poor glimpse of glory, pa.s.sion-thrilled . . .

But now my money's gone, I paint no more.

For three days past I have not tasted food; The jeweled colors run . . . I reel, I faint; They tell me that my pictures are no good, Just crude and childish daubs, a waste of paint.

I burned to throw on canvas all I saw-- Twilight on water, tenderness of trees, Wet sands at sunset and the smoking seas, The peace of valleys and the mountain's awe: Emotion swayed me at the thought of these.

I sought to paint ere I had learned to draw, And that's the trouble. . . .

Ah well! here am I, Facing my failure after struggle long; And there they are, my _croutes_ that none will buy (And doubtless they are right and I am wrong); Well, when one's lost one's faith it's time to die. . . .

This knife will do . . . and now to slash and slash; Rip them to ribands, rend them every one, My dreams and visions--tear and stab and gash, So that their crudeness may be known to none; Poor, miserable daubs! Ah! there, it's done. . . .

And now to close my little window tight.

Lo! in the dusking sky, serenely set, The evening star is like a beacon bright.

And see! to keep her tender tryst with night How Paris veils herself in violet. . . .

Oh, why does G.o.d create such men as I?-- All pride and pa.s.sion and divine desire, Raw, quivering nerve-stuff and devouring fire, Foredoomed to failure though they try and try; Abortive, blindly to destruction hurled; Unfound, unfit to grapple with the world. . . .

And now to light my wheezy jet of gas; c.h.i.n.k up the window-crannies and the door, So that no single breath of air may pa.s.s; So that I'm sealed air-tight from roof to floor.

There, there, that's done; and now there's nothing more. . . .

Look at the city's myriad lamps a-shine; See, the calm moon is launching into s.p.a.ce . . .

There will be darkness in these eyes of mine Ere it can climb to shine upon my face.

Oh, it will find such peace upon my face! . . .

City of Beauty, I have loved you well, A laugh or two I've had, but many a sigh; I've run with you the scale from Heav'n to h.e.l.l.

Paris, I love you still . . . good-by, good-by.

Thus it all ends--unhappily, alas!

It's time to sleep, and now . . . _blow out the gas_. . . .

_Now there's that little _midinette_ Who goes to work each morning daily; I choose to call her Blithe Babette, Because she's always humming gaily; And though the G.o.ddess "Comme-il-faut"

May look on her with prim expression, It's Pagan Paris where, you know, The queen of virtues is Discretion._

Room 6: The Little Workgirl

Three gentlemen live close beside me-- A painter of pictures bizarre, A poet whose virtues might guide me, A singer who plays the guitar; And there on my lintel is Cupid; I leave my door open, and yet These gentlemen, aren't they stupid!

They never make love to Babette.

I go to the shop every morning; I work with my needle and thread; Silk, satin and velvet adorning, Then luncheon on coffee and bread.

Then sewing and sewing till seven; Or else, if the order I get, I toil and I toil till eleven-- And such is the day of Babette.

It doesn't seem cheerful, I fancy; The wage is unthinkably small; And yet there is one thing I can say: I keep a bright face through it all.

I chaff though my head may be aching; I sing a gay song to forget; I laugh though my heart may be breaking-- It's all in the life of Babette.

That gown, O my lady of leisure, You begged to be "finished in haste."

It gives you an exquisite pleasure, Your lovers remark on its taste.

Yet . . . oh, the poor little white faces, The tense midnight toil and the fret . . .

I fear that the foam of its laces Is salt with the tears of Babette.

It takes a brave heart to be cheery With no gleam of hope in the sky; The future's so utterly dreary, I'm laughing--in case I should cry.

And if, where the gay lights are glowing, I dine with a man I have met, And s.n.a.t.c.h a bright moment--who's going To blame a poor little Babette?

And you, Friend beyond all the telling, Although you're an ocean away, Your pictures, they tell me, are selling, You're married and settled, they say.

Such happiness one wouldn't barter; Yet, oh, do you never regret The Springtide, the roses, Montmartre, Youth, poverty, love and--Babette?

_That blond-haired chap across the way With sunny smile and voice so mellow, He sings in some cheap cabaret, Yet what a gay and charming fellow!