Married Bohemians

OH, Meta, quit the prosy task that frets,
With seams and hems monotonous of hue,
Your two dear eyes, those timorous violets
That never yet have lost their morning dew!
For now the city spires are tolling nine,
And low the elastic night-wind breathes of June,
And lengths of dusky avenues weirdly shine
In murmurous life below the summer moon!
Take down that blossomy bonnet I adore,
And let us ramble among the sombre streets.
This embryo manuscript that floods my floor
May dry at leisure its chaotic sheets.
I leave my heroine hard-beset by fate,
(What merciless torturers we scribblers are!)
But then I have promised her to sit up late
And end her miseries with my last cigar!
How gladdening, now the open air is gained,
To feel in mine your soft arm rest and cling!
Thank Heaven, its dimpled roundness has not waned
Since first your white hand wore my wedding-ring!
For though precarious days have hurt me sore,
Through fears for that sweet wife I would protect,
The stealthy wolf that prowls from door to door
Still treats our own with amiable neglect!
How many a favored lord, or lover true,
Walks with the woman of his choice, at ease
Below this tender sky’s more liberal blue,
On spacious lawns, to-night, by whispering seas!
For them the illumined sward that sinks or swells!
The breeze that wanders over meadowy miles!
For us the sleepy treble of street-car bells,
And street-lamps glaring in long fiery files.
And yet the ardor of something to attain
Far deeplier than attainment may delight!
With all our stately castles off in Spain,
We still possess them by signorial right!
We dine each evening on no sumptuous fare,
Yet while the imposing future fails to frown,
Across indifferent claret both declare
That my new tragedy will storm the town!
Ah, lovelier to my soul than speech may frame
Is the fond thought that if our stars allow
We two shall walk the flowery paths of fame,
Joined arm in arm together, just as now!
But if the austere old gate shall never let
Our envious feet those welcome gardens win,
Secure from discontentment, we shall yet
Have all Bohemia to be happy in!
Edgar Fawcett.