Classic Poem

Thinking of my caged birds indoors,
My books, whose music serves my will;
Which, when I bid them sing, will sing,
And when I sing myself are still;

And that my scent is drops of ink,
Which, were my song as great as I,
Would sweeten man till he was dust,
And make the world one Araby;

Thinking how my hot passions make
Strong floods of shallows that run cold —
Oh how I burn to make my dreams
Lightning and thunder through the world.