My Garret

Montparnasse,     April 1914.     All day the sun has shone into my little attic, a bitter sunshine that brightened yet did not warm. And so as I toiled and toiled doggedly enough, many were the looks I cast at the three faggots I had saved to cook my evening meal. Now, however, my supper is over, my pipe alight, and as I stretch my legs before the embers I have at last a glow of comfort, a glimpse of peace.     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.