English poetry

Poems in English

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.


1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)

Poem My Room - Robert William Service