Poems (Freston)/In Bohemia
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But if I thus poach on Eladio's ground,
I fear he will not think me charming,
A danger, my friend, I'd not risk for the world,—
The thought of it is quite alarming!
I wonder what fate will the years bring to us,—
The four that are here and one wanted—
For some of us now, though unknown, I am sure,
Shall the paen of praise yet be chanted.
IN BOHEMIA
We have salads and cock-tails and sweet monopoles
And an evening of pleasure before us;
Soft, rose-tinted lights to aid eloquences' flow,
And two men who declare they adore us.
But, alas! the curled rose-leaf that always proclaims
That something must mar every pleasure,
Is the fact of your absence,—if you were but here,
Then joy would be ours in full measure.
And an evening of pleasure before us;
Soft, rose-tinted lights to aid eloquences' flow,
And two men who declare they adore us.
But, alas! the curled rose-leaf that always proclaims
That something must mar every pleasure,
Is the fact of your absence,—if you were but here,
Then joy would be ours in full measure.
My friend sits and stares, open-eyed with surprise,
As though she believed me demented,
Having near me a brace of such dear, charming boys,
To confess myself still discontented;
But somebody's absence leaves a blank hard to fill,
No matter how good the remaining.
As though she believed me demented,
Having near me a brace of such dear, charming boys,
To confess myself still discontented;
But somebody's absence leaves a blank hard to fill,
No matter how good the remaining.
And if I should say I do not miss you still,
I should certainly be only feigning.
Our friend of the palette and brush now looks grave;
He is planning, I know, illustrations,
To win first of all, your approval and smile,
And then win the praise of the nations.
Eladio has been for an hour holding forth,—
As often in past times of leisure,—
He claims that the truest philosophy still,
Is the search of that phantom called Pleasure.
I should certainly be only feigning.
Our friend of the palette and brush now looks grave;
He is planning, I know, illustrations,
To win first of all, your approval and smile,
And then win the praise of the nations.
Eladio has been for an hour holding forth,—
As often in past times of leisure,—
He claims that the truest philosophy still,
Is the search of that phantom called Pleasure.
Oh, sip the sweetness of to-day!
Why think of a to-morrow?
Drink deep the draught of love and joy!
A truce to care and sorrow!
Why think of a to-morrow?
Drink deep the draught of love and joy!
A truce to care and sorrow!
If Psyche dies with the first kiss,
Why, drop the brittle creature!
And chase anew those winged flowers,—
The butterflies of nature.
Why, drop the brittle creature!
And chase anew those winged flowers,—
The butterflies of nature.
What path so sweet, as on through life,
Fate forces us to advance,
As that fair way the poets call
The "Primrose path of dalliance."
Fate forces us to advance,
As that fair way the poets call
The "Primrose path of dalliance."
But if I thus poach on Eladio's ground,
I fear he will not think me charming,
A danger, my friend, I'd not risk for the world,—
The thought of it is quite alarming!
I wonder what fate will the years bring to us,—
The four that are here and one wanted—
For some of us now, though unknown, I am sure,
Shall the paen of praise yet be chanted.
When you, the great actor, unspoiled by the praise,
And the blame that will come in full measure,
Shall look back on these old Bohemian days,
With a sense of regret yet of pleasure,
And wonder if this lifeless wreath of green bays,
That rests on the hair now grown grayer,
Was worth all the struggle or one of those days,
When love was free gift, and life gayer.
And the blame that will come in full measure,
Shall look back on these old Bohemian days,
With a sense of regret yet of pleasure,
And wonder if this lifeless wreath of green bays,
That rests on the hair now grown grayer,
Was worth all the struggle or one of those days,
When love was free gift, and life gayer.
And he, the young artist, whose nimble brush now
Depicts most of all ballet ladies,
With skirts very short and with kicks very tall—
The last one I named modest Madies—
Will never let Italy's skies of fair blue,
Nor his pictures in Paris salon,
Blot out the dear memory of friends leal and true,
Nor those merry old days that are gone.
Depicts most of all ballet ladies,
With skirts very short and with kicks very tall—
The last one I named modest Madies—
Will never let Italy's skies of fair blue,
Nor his pictures in Paris salon,
Blot out the dear memory of friends leal and true,
Nor those merry old days that are gone.
And, Laddie,—as Sénor Eladio, I know
I shall see him, a crowned prince of song,
Bow low to the thousand who hang on his voice,
And smile at the rapturous throng.
The feted of many, the worshiped of all,
Still his heart will turn back I am sure,
To the days of the studio,—dear vanished days,
When we all were so rich, although poor.
I shall see him, a crowned prince of song,
Bow low to the thousand who hang on his voice,
And smile at the rapturous throng.
The feted of many, the worshiped of all,
Still his heart will turn back I am sure,
To the days of the studio,—dear vanished days,
When we all were so rich, although poor.
And she, my girl friend, with the tender brown eyes,
What future does Fate hold in store?
A wife and a mother, a life wisely planned,
What woman could ask any more?
I can fancy her saying to girl number four,
"I'm surprised at you Maud and ashamed,
That a daughter of mine should have smoked cigarettes,
And a cock-tail should never be named
By a well-bred young lady whose mother aspires
To win yet a title for you.
What future does Fate hold in store?
A wife and a mother, a life wisely planned,
What woman could ask any more?
I can fancy her saying to girl number four,
"I'm surprised at you Maud and ashamed,
That a daughter of mine should have smoked cigarettes,
And a cock-tail should never be named
By a well-bred young lady whose mother aspires
To win yet a title for you.
So leave those low tastes to the artists and such,
They know nothing better! pray do!"
But way down in her heart a small traitor voice
Will remind her of happier hours,
That are folded away like some sweet, withered buds,
That were plucked in Bohemian bowers.
And I, when these rhymes that now trouble my brain,
And sadly upset all my duties,
Out of chaos take form, and materialize,
In the shape of sweet rhythmical beauties,
And these dreams that I dream, when my soul takes its flight.
They know nothing better! pray do!"
But way down in her heart a small traitor voice
Will remind her of happier hours,
That are folded away like some sweet, withered buds,
That were plucked in Bohemian bowers.
And I, when these rhymes that now trouble my brain,
And sadly upset all my duties,
Out of chaos take form, and materialize,
In the shape of sweet rhythmical beauties,
And these dreams that I dream, when my soul takes its flight.
From the every day world all around me,
Will shyly come forth, like the stars of the night,—
Or my child that was lost and has found me!
When critics shall blame me or censure or praise,
And publishers' gold fill my coffers,
And I rear my head high, proudly decked with its bays,
And receive and decline many offers!
Will shyly come forth, like the stars of the night,—
Or my child that was lost and has found me!
When critics shall blame me or censure or praise,
And publishers' gold fill my coffers,
And I rear my head high, proudly decked with its bays,
And receive and decline many offers!
When I hold my salon, where the pride of the town,—
The genius, the wit, and the learning,—
Will each one his gift at Art's altar lay down,
And a welcome receive for the earning!
The genius, the wit, and the learning,—
Will each one his gift at Art's altar lay down,
And a welcome receive for the earning!
Ah, well! let the future bring what e'er it will,
The present is sunny as May,
And were you but with us I fain would desire,
This hour not to hurry away.
The present is sunny as May,
And were you but with us I fain would desire,
This hour not to hurry away.