Classic Poem

Enough, small Room, — though all too true
Much ill in thee I daily do, —
Enough to make thy memory blest,
And thoughts of thee a place of rest,
If, 'midst the ills that crowd me here,
Unvarying clouds that still appear
To dull Life's social atmosphere,
(Oh shame that things so base have power
To bind me down a single hour)
Vainglorious words of fond conceit,
Self-pleasures of successful wit,
And heartless jests and coward lies
And hollow sleek complacencies, —
Enough, — if ever and anon
In thee secluded and alone,
On the dry dust of this weak breast
With conscious faultiness opprest,
And social levities distrest,
Hath fallen from sunny skies above
An April shower of genuine love:
If homeward thoughts and thoughts of one
Sincerely sought nor all unwon,
Of words once said and things once done
'Mid simpler hearts and fresher faces
In happier times and holier places,
With penitential thoughts combine,
And hopes that ere life's day decline
Such lot may yet once more be mine,
And though with toil recalled and pain
My purer Soul return again,
And I be wiser to retain.