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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508617" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Room 4: The Painter Chap</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">He gives me such a bold and curious look,<br>That young American across the way,<br>As if he'd like to put me in a book<br>(Fancies himself a poet, so they say.)<br>Ah well! He'll make no &quot;document&quot; of me.<br>I lock my door. Ha! ha! Now none shall see. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Pictures, just pictures piled from roof to floor,<br>Each one a bit of me, a dream fulfilled,<br>A vision of the beauty I adore,<br>My own poor glimpse of glory, passion-thrilled . . .<br>But now my money's gone, I paint no more.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For three days past I have not tasted food;<br>The jeweled colors run . . . I reel, I faint;<br>They tell me that my pictures are no good,<br>Just crude and childish daubs, a waste of paint.<br>I burned to throw on canvas all I saw --<br>Twilight on water, tenderness of trees,<br>Wet sands at sunset and the smoking seas,<br>The peace of valleys and the mountain's awe:<br>Emotion swayed me at the thought of these.<br>I sought to paint ere I had learned to draw,<br>And that's the trouble. . . .<br>   Ah well! here am I,<br>Facing my failure after struggle long;<br>And there they are, my croutes that none will buy<br>(And doubtless they are right and I am wrong);<br>Well, when one's lost one's faith it's time to die. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This knife will do . . . and now to slash and slash;<br>Rip them to ribands, rend them every one,<br>My dreams and visions -- tear and stab and gash,<br>So that their crudeness may be known to none;<br>Poor, miserable daubs! Ah! there, it's done. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now to close my little window tight.<br>Lo! in the dusking sky, serenely set,<br>The evening star is like a beacon bright.<br>And see! to keep her tender tryst with night<br>How Paris veils herself in violet. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, why does God create such men as I? --<br>All pride and passion and divine desire,<br>Raw, quivering nerve-stuff and devouring fire,<br>Foredoomed to failure though they try and try;<br>Abortive, blindly to destruction hurled;<br>Unfound, unfit to grapple with the world. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now to light my wheezy jet of gas;<br>Chink up the window-crannies and the door,<br>So that no single breath of air may pass;<br>So that I'm sealed air-tight from roof to floor.<br>There, there, that's done; and now there's nothing more. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Look at the city's myriad lamps a-shine;<br>See, the calm moon is launching into space . . .<br>There will be darkness in these eyes of mine<br>Ere it can climb to shine upon my face.<br>Oh, it will find such peace upon my face! . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">City of Beauty, I have loved you well,<br>A laugh or two I've had, but many a sigh;<br>I've run with you the scale from Heav'n to Hell.<br>Paris, I love you still . . . good-by, good-by.<br>Thus it all ends -- unhappily, alas!<br>It's time to sleep, and now . . . blow out the gas. . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now there's that little midinette<br>Who goes to work each morning daily;<br>I choose to call her Blithe Babette,<br>Because she's always humming gaily;<br>And though the Goddess &quot;Comme-il-faut&quot;<br>May look on her with prim expression,<br>It's Pagan Paris where, you know,<br>The queen of virtues is Discretion.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508617" data-title="Room 4: The Painter Chap de Robert William Service" data-description="He gives me such a bold and curious look,
That young American across the way,
As if he'd like to put me in a book
(Fancies himself a poet, so they say.)
Ah well! He'll make no &quot;document&quot; of me.
I lock my door. Ha! ha! Now none shall see...."></div>
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