And oh, it was joy to loiter thus,
At peace in the heart of the city's stir,
Entombed, while life hurried over us,
In our lazy bacchanal sepulchre.
There was artist George, with the blond Greek head,
And the startling creeds, and the loose cravat;
There was splenetic journalistic Fred,
Of the sharp retort and the shabby hat;
There was dreamy Frank, of the lounging gait,
Who lived on nothing a year, or less,
And always meant to be something great,
But only meant, and smoked to excess;
And last myself, whom their funny sneers
Annoyed no whit as they laughed and said,
I listened to all their grand ideas
And wrote them out for my daily bread!
The Teuton beer-bibbers came and went,
Night after night, and stared, good folk,
At our table, noisy with argument,
And our chronic aureoles of smoke.
And oh, my life! but we all loved well
The talk,--free, fearless, keen, profound,--
The rockets of wit that flashed and fell
In that dull old tavern under-ground!
But there came a change in my days at last,
And fortune forgot to starve and stint,
And the people chose to admire aghast
The book I had eaten dirt to print.
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