This mountain of trunks outside the door!

       Perhaps you might care to investigate these,
But I’ll not risk becoming a bore—
       Here, the door is open! Entrez. (Sneeze!)

The chair itself, though, you don’t see daily.
       Look at the carvings there in the middle
Of the back—all the others are occupied gaily,

There’s nothing to sit upon—but the bed.
       “But Madame will object!” Not she. Asleep
At twelve of the clock! What a heavy head!
       I’d wake her—but you are an artist,—Peep

How sad she looks! Very sad for her,

And you moushoir went into it? All my fault!
       I should not have entered Bohemia so,

But not just at present. Why, pocket the stain!
       ’Twill come out quite easily by-and-by;
And whether it come out, or if it remain,

Look out for your head, for the ceiling’s low,
       And out of three globes on the chandelier,
Only one is left, and it’s cracked, will go
       To pieces almost if one looks at it near.

And long-poured-out coffee. At last! She Stirs!

“I am an object? Quick, say!” Ah, Madame!
       One of grace and delight you always must be,

Lee is my friend and a fast rising painter;
       Does things which outrival your matchless Corot;
Murky gray skies, with a curious fainter

Though, is it Corot that I mean? Lee is shocked.
       Suffice it, we saw you last night in the play,
In a pink and white poem so charmingly frocked,
       O happy, thrice happy Théatre Français!

And the bright bloom of Eos on either cheek,

But later, Madame, you’ll be pale, no doubt.
       No? Not when the afternoon shadows fall,

The playing of Monsieur Diabolus? Ah!
       He is here as I speak, and now, friend Lee,
Whom I think, Chevalier, you yesterday saw

We’ll leave you to settle your palette and plushes,
       To frown and reflect, then to rumple your hair,
And presently actively bristle with brushes.
       So; practice, Chevalier, while I will prepare

Picked up at Victors. A glorious cook!

You laugh, mes amis. Well, it’s this. He’s a Pole,
       Therefore illustrious; Poles always are;

Or Muse in his cooking; is the better for blood,
       As brains always are when together you find them;
The Regent had loved him; put poison for cud

Now Chopin and he were great friends in their way,
       And Victor has told me, his ices and cakes
Of the best inspiration, salmis, entremêts,
       Of the rarest, he owed to the delicate shakes

For its meaning, its essence—no, not the vanilla!

If you want to and can with this in your ears,
       The sad soul of Chopin on violin strings!

Let the down that was snowy and dowered as your own
       Feed your ne’er dying worm as it rears and recedes,
Let the blood that once warmed you through breast to cold bone

Not the grave-worm, Madame—Ah! would God that it were!
       (My worm, and your’s, Lee, are both of a gender).
A live thing so harmlessly, holily fair!
       No. We were enthralled with a mirage of splendour.

Feed your worm then, I say, with superlative pain,

Can give us—the wistful, the cry of all souls
       Inarticulate, helpless, abandoned and blind,

But Madame there grows restless, declares I am triste;
       I am old, chers amis, but not cynical, no!
You have finished, I see, my ingenious feast,

Lee—rehearsal draws near. Say good-bye to it all,
       Come and look here, Chevalier, there’s nothing to dread,
Ah! No colour, my friend! Take this red parasol,
       Stand it open at back of Madame’s little head!

You have gone to real life, the critics will say,

       They ran—Now, mark me, Lee, you’ll never paint
       Until you learn more daring. Dare to fling

But Madame, I digress, and the time, how it goes!
       Adieu for the present. One wish—might I claim
This smallest, most withered, and least little rose,

Twelve bouquets—observe, Lee—all thrown in one night,
       Who were guilty of some would be easy to see;
Here’s a note, there’s a case—oh! we must take our flight,
       And thanks, Chevalier, for the Nocturne in G.