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.