Page:Von Heidenstam - Sweden's laureate, selected poems of Verner von Heidenstam (1919).djvu/79

THE HAPPY ARTISTS.

Yes, human beings,—these same bulks we see
In square and street since, doubtless to oppress them,
The clothes-idea struck man's family,—
Have form and color, if they but undress them.

I stretched my canvas, took up with precision
My charcoal. Then the model in that cold
And blue-gray light let fall her garment's fold,
And a nude beauty stood before our vision.
We merry lads were seated all around,
While through the frosted windows came up-soaring
The muffled, multitudinous thunder-sound
Of smoky Paris, like Niagara's roaring.

I was the youngest student, to my woe.
How gladly I recall now the occasion
In the first week when I as "le nouveau"
Danced for my fellow-students' delectation,
Wearing a mighty Phrygian chapeau!
Each man politely bade me buy him soap;
If I forgot, though, I should get a thwacking.
With punch I sued for grace, but had to mope
In thirst while all the rest their lips were smacking.

I had to serve our Baal, the fire-place,
Which glowed like any wine-warm prelate's face.
My blue-and-yellow matchbox with a snicker
They scrutinized, and straightway bade me spell