I THINK that I should like to be
A pavement artist best,
For he has every kind of chalk
Spread in a cosy nest.

I have ten pieces in a box,
Black, yellow, white and blue,
Pink, red, brown, orange, grey and green,
But these are far too few.

— Compton Mackenzie

Meaning

The poem speaks in a plain, almost childlike voice about wanting a life of color and freedom. The speaker looks at a pavement artist and imagines the pleasure of having “every kind of chalk” close at hand, safe in a “cosy nest.” That phrase makes the tools of art feel warm and welcoming, like a little home. Then the speaker compares that imagined abundance to their own small box of ten sticks—listed carefully by color—and admits they still aren’t enough. So the core meaning is simple: creativity feeds on variety, and desire grows as possibilities grow. The poem isn’t about owning luxury; it’s about the hunger to make and to explore. And it hints that art made on the ground, out in the open, might be the truest way to belong in the world: public, playful, and full of color.

Literary Interpretation

On the surface, this reads like a child’s wish, but the craft points to a quieter argument about art and limits. The rhymed quatrains and steady rhythm echo nursery verse, which keeps the tone light even as the poem sets up a serious contrast between scarcity and imagined plenty. The list of colors—“Black, yellow, white and blue, / Pink, red, brown, orange, grey and green”—works like a small inventory poem inside the poem. It’s tactile: you can feel the chalks lined up, you can almost see the stripes of a makeshift rainbow. Yet the closing line—“But these are far too few”—turns enumeration into a comment on artistic appetite. Ten isn’t meager; it’s just not enough once the mind starts picturing “every kind of chalk.” That is the lyric engine here: imagination enlarges the world faster than material supplies can keep up. The “pavement artist” also matters as a figure. Chalk drawings live at street level and wash away in the rain. Choosing that artist signals an embrace of impermanence and accessibility over prestige. No gallery, just sidewalk; no permanence, just joy in the making. The “cosy nest” metaphor quietly shifts the center of comfort from home to the toolbox, as if creative work itself becomes shelter. So the poem’s gentle wish carries a larger claim: real contentment isn’t having enough, it’s having open access to a living palette—scope for play, space to try again tomorrow, and the democratic ground under your feet where anyone can stop, look, and be part of it.