Classic Poem

If I were a poet, and gray and tired,
And found I had come to be much admired
By cultured cliques for my style so rare,
With my picture in book-shops everywhere;
'T would give me small joy as I sat apart,
Worn-out and faint at heart.

But I know what would bring the blood to my cheek
And stir my marrow, though never so weak,—
If I saw from my window some day in spring
The workingmen pass, and they should sing
In time to their step as they strode along,
And mine should be the song.