Confession of a Poet

Arthur Davison Ficke

WE all have our own ideas about happiness— But until you know of a man His special one, You know nothing of him.— So I tell you mine.—

To me, happiness Is to sit in a large cafe With a girl of agile mind and exquisite beauty, Dining and drinking a Burgundy That is not too distractingly rich— And music, decidedly music— And to read to her one of the world's great lyrics Which I wrote about her as I was coming to meet her—

And see her delicate gaiety suddenly tremble, Moved, shaken under the shock of a beauty That forces her beauty to bow to its master of beauty:— This, repeated every three hours, Would be my idea of happiness.

—Oh, yes, always with a different girl!