This is my room, the room I love.

Here have been friends and voices lifted high.

Here have been evenings

Such as lives make memories of, and here

My poems are written.

Each book, each picture, every grouping

Has a meaning, and all things are very dear.

I come awake to lie and look at backs of books

From bed, and close above my head

See pictures hung in pleasure.

At night, the last thing that the windowed moon

Shows me before I sleep is books.

I built the bookcase, bought the books,

And therefore love them

Here are letters read and written.

Many and many a pipe alone,

And pipes with two in silence have been smoked.

Un-numbered candles here have shone

On evening hours with books,

While dreamy peace was all above

And round me. This is my room,

The room I love.