My Room

I think the things I own and love
  Acquire a sense of me,
That gives them value far above
  The worth that others see.
My chattels are of me a part:
  This chair on which I sit
Would break its overstuffed old heart
  If I made junk of it.

To humble needs with which I live,
  My books, my desk, my bed,
A personality I give
  They'll lose when I am dead.
Sometimes on entering my room
  They look at me with fear,
As if they had a sense of doom
  Inevitably near.

Yet haply, since they do not die,
  In them will linger on
Some of the spirit that was I,
  When I am gone.
And maybe some sweet soul will sigh,
  And stroke with tender touch
The things I loved, and even cry
  A little,--not too much.

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"My Room" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 17 Sep. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/32308/my-room>.

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