Poetry Archives

I think the things I own and love
          Acquire a sense of me,
That gives them value far above
          The worth that others see.
My chattels are of me a part:
          This chair on which I sit
Would break its overstuffed old heart
          If I made junk of it.

To humble needs with which I live,
          My books, my desk, my bed,
A personality I give
          They’ll lose when I am dead.
Sometimes on entering my room
          They look at me with fear,
As if they had a sense of doom
          Inevitably near.

Yet haply, since they do not die,
          In them will linger on
Some of the spirit that was I,
          When I am gone.
And maybe some sweet soul will sigh,
          And stroke with tender touch
The things I loved, and even cry
          A little,—not too much.