My Room
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.
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