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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=508517" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>My Room</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=508517" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I think the things I own and love<br> Acquire a sense of me,<br>That gives them value far above<br> The worth that others see.<br>My chattels are of me a part:<br> This chair on which I sit<br>Would break its overstuffed old heart<br> If I made junk of it.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=508517" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">To humble needs with which I live,<br> My books, my desk, my bed,<br>A personality I give<br> They'll lose when I am dead.<br>Sometimes on entering my room<br> They look at me with fear,<br>As if they had a sense of doom<br> Inevitably near.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=508517" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Yet haply, since they do not die,<br> In them will linger on<br>Some of the spirit that was I,<br> When I am gone.<br>And maybe some sweet soul will sigh,<br> And stroke with tender touch<br>The things I loved, and even cry<br> A little,--not too much.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a></strong></div>

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