The Bohemian Dreams

Because my overcoat's in pawn,      I choose to take my glass      Within a little bistro on      The rue du Montparnasse;      The dusty bins with bottles shine,      The counter's lined with zinc,      And there I sit and drink my wine,      And think and think and think.      I think of hoary old Stamboul,      Of Moslem and of Greek,      Of Persian in coat of wool,      Of Kurd and Arab sheikh;      Of all the types of weal and woe,      And as I raise my glass,      Across Galata bridge I know      They pass and pass and pass.      I think of citron-trees aglow,      Of fan-palms shading down,      Of sailors dancing heel and toe      With wenches black and brown;      And though it's all an ocean far      From Yucatan to France,      I'll bet beside the old bazaar      They dance and dance and dance.      I think of Monte Carlo, where      The pallid croupiers call,      And in the gorgeous, guilty air      The gamblers watch the ball;      And as I flick away the foam      With which my beer is crowned,      The wheels beneath the gilded dome      Go round and round and round.      I think of vast Niagara,      Those gulfs of foam a-shine,      Whose mighty roar would stagger a      More prosy bean than mine;      And as the hours I idly spend      Against a greasy wall,      I know that green the waters bend      And fall and fall and fall.      I think of Nijni Novgorod      And Jews who never rest;      And womenfolk with spade and hod      Who slave in Buda-Pest;      Of squat and sturdy Japanese      Who pound the paddy soil,      And as I loaf and smoke at ease      They toil and toil and toil.      I think of shrines in Hindustan,      Of cloistral glooms in Spain,      Of minarets in Ispahan,      Of St. Sophia's fane,      Of convent towers in Palestine,      Of temples in Cathay,      And as I stretch and sip my wine      They pray and pray and pray.      And so my dreams I dwell within,      And visions come and go,      And life is passing like a Cin-      Ematographic Show;      Till just as surely as my pipe      Is underneath my nose,      Amid my visions rich and ripe      I doze and doze and doze.