Ballads of a Bohemian
Available as PDF, epub, and Kindle ebook.
Ballads of a Bohemian is a 1921 book of poetry by Robert W. Service. Poems in the book include: Julot the Apache; Chez Moi, Montparnasse; It Is Later Than You Think; Moon Song; The Sewing-Girl; On the Boulevard; The Absinthe Drinkers; The Philistine and the Bohemian; The Pencil Seller; A Domestic Tragedy; The Philanderer; The Spirit of the Unborn Babe' If You Had a Friend; The Blood-Red Fourragère; and many more.
This book has 258 pages in the PDF version, and was originally published in 1921.
Download for ereaders (below donate buttons)
Last week, Global Grey readers downloaded 65,000 ebooks - 9 people gave donations. I love creating these books and giving them for free, but I need some help to continue running the site. If you can, please make a small donation - any amount is appreciated. You can also support the site by buying one of the specially curated collections.
PDF ePub Kindle
Excerpt from 'Ballads of a Bohemian'
Here is my Garret up five flights of stairs;
Here's where I deal in dreams and ply in fancies,
Here is the wonder-shop of all my wares,
My sounding sonnets and my red romances.
Here's where I challenge Fate and ring my rhymes,
And grope at glory—aye, and starve at times.
Here is my Stronghold: stout of heart am I,
Greeting each dawn as songful as a linnet;
And when at night on yon poor bed I lie
(Blessing the world and every soul that's in it),
Here's where I thank the Lord no shadow bars
My skylight's vision of the valiant stars.
Here is my Palace tapestried with dreams.
Ah! though to-night ten sous are all my treasure,
While in my gaze immortal beauty gleams,
Am I not dowered with wealth beyond all measure?
Though in my ragged coat my songs I sing,
King of my soul, I envy not the king.
Here is my Haven: it's so quiet here;
Only the scratch of pen, the candle's flutter;
Shabby and bare and small, but O how dear!
Mark you—my table with my work a-clutter,
My shelf of tattered books along the wall,
My bed, my broken chair—that's nearly all.
Only four faded walls, yet mine, all mine.
Oh, you fine folks, a pauper scorns your pity.
Look, where above me stars of rapture shine;
See, where below me gleams the siren city . . .
Am I not rich?—a millionaire no less,
If wealth be told in terms of Happiness.