My Garret

Here is my Garret up five flights of stairs;

Here's where I deal in dreams and ply in fancies,

Here is the wonder-shop of all my wares,

My sounding sonnets and my red romances.

Here's where I challenge Fate and ring my rhymes,

And grope at glory--aye, and starve at times.

Here is my Stronghold: stout of heart am I,

Greeting each dawn as songful as a linnet;

And when at night on yon poor bed I lie

(Blessing the world and every soul that's in it),

Here's where I thank the Lord no shadow bars

My skylight's vision of the valiant stars.

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; nervously I paced up and down my garret; bitterly I

flung myself on my bed. Then suddenly it all came. Line after line I

wrote with hardly a halt. So I made another of my Ballads of the

Boulevards. Here it is:

Ballads of a Bohemian · 第 22 / 118 题