In Bohemia, Kate, my dear—­
    Lodgers in a musty flat
  On the top floor—­living here
    Neighborless, and used to that,—­
      Like a nest beneath the eaves,
      So our little home receives
      Only guests of chirping cheer—­
      We’ll be happy, Kate, my dear!

  Under your north-light there, you
    At your easel, with a stain
  On your nose of Prussian blue,
    Paint your bits of shine and rain;
      With my feet thrown up at will
      O’er my littered window-sill,
      I write rhymes that ring as clear
      As your laughter, Kate, my dear.

  Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair—­
    Bite my pencil-tip and gaze
  At you, mutely mooning there
    O’er your “Aprils” and your “Mays!”
      Equal inspiration in
      Dimples of your cheek and chin,
      And the golden atmosphere
      Of your paintings, Kate, my dear!

  Trying!  Yes, at times it is,
    To clink happy rhymes, and fling
  On the canvas scenes of bliss,
    When we are half famishing!—­
      When your “jersey” rips in spots,
      And your hat’s “forget-me-nots”
      Have grown tousled, old and sere—­
      It is trying, Kate, my dear!

  But—­as sure—­some picture sells,
    And—­sometimes—­the poetry—­
  Bless us!  How the parrot yells
    His acclaims at you and me! 
      How we revel then in scenes
      Of high banqueting!—­sardines—­
      Salads—­olives—­and a sheer
      Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear!

  Even now I cross your palm,
    With this great round world of gold!—­
  “Talking wild?” Perhaps I am—­
    Then, this little five-year-old!—­
      Call it anything you will,
      So it lifts your face until
      I may kiss away that tear
      Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear.

IN THE DARK.

  O in the depths of midnight
    What fancies haunt the brain! 
  When even the sigh of the sleeper
    Sounds like a sob of pain.

  A sense of awe and of wonder
    I may never well define,—­
  For the thoughts that come in the shadows
    Never come in the shine.

  The old clock down in the parlor
    Like a sleepless mourner grieves,
  And the seconds drip in the silence
    As the rain drips from the eaves.

  And I think of the hands that signal
    The hours there in the gloom,
  And wonder what angel watchers
    Wait in the darkened room.

  And I think of the smiling faces
    That used to watch and wait,
  Till the click of the clock was answered
    By the click of the opening gate.—­

  They are not there now in the evening—­
    Morning or noon—­not there;
  Yet I know that they keep their vigil,
    And wait for me Somewhere.

WET WEATHER TALK.