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.