How Alice would smile if she saw me recline
In my easiest chair to look over my pictures,
And pause at one portrait that isn't divine
Yet doesn't permit any critical strictures.
She would say what a fool I was doting on this,
Till my arm round her waist became very ecstatic
Now you'd almost suppose it was naughty to kiss
When she wants to be very dogmatic.
If Alice were here she would probably smile
At my poor little wofully modest interior;
She'd compare it with quarters I've had, and the style
Is decidedly shabby and wholly inferior.
But one cannot live always in clover and June,
Nor while making a fortune abide in a palace
I'm content to be thrifty to-day for the boon
Of spending to-morrow with Alice.
I have rented a room in the rear of the flat,
And the window looks out on a desolate entry,
Where midnight discovers the jubilant cat,
And a dolorous dog keeping vigilant sentry;
Yet the prospect is not at all bad — when you think —
You can see a few far-away stars when they're shining,
And the moonlight bestows an occasional blink,
With suggestions of clouds with a lining.
There's an almanac stuck on the back of a door,
And a map of the city is pinned to another;
Here a photograph hangs of my colleen asthore ,
And one over there they say favours my mother;
Here's a table with trumpery, papers, and books;
Here's a basin and highly unclassical chalice
In exchange for the brooks and the flies and the hooks
And the last summer's angling with Alice.
My trio of chairs might make room for some more
If my drawers and my trunk were a thought less capacious;
If the bed didn't straddle all over the floor
You might come to believe the apartment was spacious.
But the walls are not distant enough to be cold,
Nor to lend the enchantment that tickles the poet,
And at least if the place be a den — I'm consoled
That there isn't a grumbler to know it.
Some other folks live in the chambers around,
For I hear their alarums importunate warning;
You can study the punctual paganish sound
Through deplorably barbarous hours of the morning.
But that is as near as these strangers attain
To arousing a thought of goodwill or of malice;
The day has its labour, the hours that remain
I lavish on thoughts about Alice.
In my easiest chair to look over my pictures,
And pause at one portrait that isn't divine
Yet doesn't permit any critical strictures.
She would say what a fool I was doting on this,
Till my arm round her waist became very ecstatic
Now you'd almost suppose it was naughty to kiss
When she wants to be very dogmatic.
If Alice were here she would probably smile
At my poor little wofully modest interior;
She'd compare it with quarters I've had, and the style
Is decidedly shabby and wholly inferior.
But one cannot live always in clover and June,
Nor while making a fortune abide in a palace
I'm content to be thrifty to-day for the boon
Of spending to-morrow with Alice.
I have rented a room in the rear of the flat,
And the window looks out on a desolate entry,
Where midnight discovers the jubilant cat,
And a dolorous dog keeping vigilant sentry;
Yet the prospect is not at all bad — when you think —
You can see a few far-away stars when they're shining,
And the moonlight bestows an occasional blink,
With suggestions of clouds with a lining.
There's an almanac stuck on the back of a door,
And a map of the city is pinned to another;
Here a photograph hangs of my colleen asthore ,
And one over there they say favours my mother;
Here's a table with trumpery, papers, and books;
Here's a basin and highly unclassical chalice
In exchange for the brooks and the flies and the hooks
And the last summer's angling with Alice.
My trio of chairs might make room for some more
If my drawers and my trunk were a thought less capacious;
If the bed didn't straddle all over the floor
You might come to believe the apartment was spacious.
But the walls are not distant enough to be cold,
Nor to lend the enchantment that tickles the poet,
And at least if the place be a den — I'm consoled
That there isn't a grumbler to know it.
Some other folks live in the chambers around,
For I hear their alarums importunate warning;
You can study the punctual paganish sound
Through deplorably barbarous hours of the morning.
But that is as near as these strangers attain
To arousing a thought of goodwill or of malice;
The day has its labour, the hours that remain
I lavish on thoughts about Alice.