The Cottage Door

One, two, three, four,
I run to the cottage door.
The name cottage fits my home;
I love to call it a cottage.
Here I play sovereign in the mansion
Or bedraggled pauper in the scanty hovel.
With the size I have given to it
It matches with any conceit.

I think this my Victorian terrace
From where I sight from out my book
Scenes of Hugo’s Notre Dam…
Cobbled paths mocking penurious streets…
Glamorous balls shielded from pestilent bouts:
I know the plenty from the pity.

I glimpse chapels, towers, chateaux,
And still feel proud though I own none;
I see rugged tents and makeshift shelters
And feel the pang though not my lot.

At night I pore into my fairy tale book
Over the light of a friendly candle,
And as my eyes feel heavy with sleep
I say, This is what prince and pauper seek.


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