Classic Poem

My table holds a book, well scored,
A simple gift my mother gave;
Above my couch-head hangs a sword,
A sword that helped to free the slave.

My shelves are bare of costly books,
My walls of works that Art would prize,
But down upon me ever looks
One pictured face with constant eyes.

These give me strength to speak to men
What truth I know; they cheer Defeat,
They counsel Doubt; they rule my pen,
Three mentors, wise and strong and sweet.

No bitter word I dare to trace,
No craven thought, no phrase untrue,
While Book and Sword and your dear face
Keep watch and ward on all I do.