Classic Poem

Whenever I see old garrets I think of mice and cheese,
And slender, wistful poets who dream by candle-light,
I think of winds that shiver, and wailing leafless trees,
And winding, wooden stairways that creak in hush of night.

I see dim, wrinkled parchments, a dusty quill or two,
A narrow, paneless window that frames a sparkling sky,
Stained walls and broken ceilings the rain has eaten through,
A dried-up china ink-pot, a shelf with books piled high.

Within those dingy garrets in yellow candle-glow,
What fadeless visions blossomed, what deathless dreams had birth,
What flaming songs leapt starward from poets' roofs below,
When city streets lay sleeping and night had stilled the earth!

Now a house that is rich and modern is a pleasant dwelling place,
But a poet should live in a garret where the witching moonlight streams,
Alone with the whispering stars and apart from the world's mad race,
Reigning in indolent ease, a king in his palace of dreams!