“O, the spring is sweet in London, Rose; the sun shines in the Park Very near as warm and happy as it used to shine at home— What’s the use of sitting sighing in my bedroom cold and dark When there’s many a girl will walk with me, if only asked to come?
“There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng, There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street, And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a song In the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet!
“And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you, And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours, But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few, And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors.
“Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind, It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange: This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind, And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.
“So that’s why I write this letter: that you shouldn’t think it right Just because we used to promise things and kiss, in days gone by, To refuse the other fellows when they come to woo, at sight. O! London eats your heart and soul—my little Rose, Good-bye.”
As I climb these musty stairs, To my garret near the roof— Past the ladies singing airs From the latest Opéra-bouffe— I can see her little feet Twinkling in the brilliant light, I can hear the words so sweet That she said for my delight, When the whirling dance was over And she joined me in the night.
As I climb these hard-worn stairs To my garret near the roof, All her pretty, subtle airs, As she kept me half-aloof, Fill my thoughts and banish cares; I can hear her soft reproof When I kissed her unawares, As I climb these weary stairs To my garret near the roof.
Madame, from out the hurrying throng Two boys have come to drink and talk; And one will make a little song And one a drawing, done in chalk.
When all goes wayward with our art And beauty dances out of sight, It’s good to still a hungry heart With chatter far into the night.
Here through the grey-blue smoke that twines, Gay visions come to tired eyes; How bright the Isle of Java shines Beneath what deep, cerulean skies!