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Poem	Here is my Garret up five flights of stairs; Here's where I deal in dreams and ply in fancies, Here is the wonder-shop of all my wares, My sounding sonnets and my red romances. Here's where I challenge Fate and ring my rhymes, And grope at glory -- aye, and starve at times. Here is my Stronghold: stout of heart am I, Greeting each dawn as songful as a linnet; And when at night on yon poor bed I lie (Blessing the world and every soul that's in it), Here's where I thank the Lord no shadow bars My skylight's vision of the valiant stars. Here is my Palace tapestried with dreams. Ah! though to-night ten sous are all my treasure, While in my gaze immortal beauty gleams, Am I not dowered with wealth beyond all measure? Though in my ragged coat my songs I sing, King of my soul, I envy not the king. Here is my Haven: it's so quiet here; Only the scratch of pen, the candle's flutter; Shabby and bare and small, but O how dear! Mark you -- my table with my work a-clutter, My shelf of tattered books along the wall, My bed, my broken chair -- that's nearly all. Only four faded walls, yet mine, all mine. Oh, you fine folks, a pauper scorns your pity. Look, where above me stars of rapture shine; See, where below me gleams the siren city . . . Am I not rich? -- a millionaire no less, If wealth be told in terms of Happiness.
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