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Poem	The humble garret where I dwell Is in that Quarter called the Latin; It isn't spacious -- truth to tell, There's hardly room to swing a cat in. But what of that! It's there I fight For food and fame, my Muse inviting, And all the day and half the night You'll find me writing, writing, writing. Now, it was in the month of May As, wrestling with a rhyme rheumatic, I chanced to look across the way, And lo! within a neighbor attic, A hand drew back the window shade, And there, a picture glad and glowing, I saw a sweet and slender maid, And she was sewing, sewing, sewing. So poor the room, so small, so scant, Yet somehow oh, so bright and airy. There was a pink geranium plant, Likewise a very pert canary. And in the maiden's heart it seemed Some fount of gladness must be springing, For as alone I sadly dreamed I heard her singing, singing, singing. God love her! how it cheered me then To see her there so brave and pretty; So she with needle, I with pen, We slaved and sang above the city. And as across my streams of ink I watched her from a poet's distance, She stitched and sang . . . I scarcely think She was aware of my existence. And then one day she sang no more. That put me out, there's no denying. I looked -- she labored as before, But, bless me! she was crying, crying. Her poor canary chirped in vain; Her pink geranium drooped in sorrow; "Of course," said I, "she'll sing again. Maybe," I sighed, "she will to-morrow." Poor child; 'twas finished with her song: Day after day her tears were flowing; And as I wondered what was wrong She pined and peaked above her sewing. And then one day the blind she drew, Ah! though I sought with vain endeavor To pierce the darkness, well I knew My sewing-girl had gone for ever. And as I sit alone to-night My eyes unto her room are turning . . . I'd give the sum of all I write Once more to see her candle burning, Once more to glimpse her happy face, And while my rhymes of cheer I'm ringing, Across the sunny sweep of space To hear her singing, singing, singing.
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