Classic Poem

Not their near neighbors
Were kind to Christ or Keats,
Speaking of them, just passed
Down their main streets.

" There goes a carpenter,
Who dreams and sings
At his bench, satisfied
With very little things. "

" He was once a stable boy,
Yonder a druggist's-clerk,
He has an odd face
For one who does such work. "

When destiny wishes
A lad to have fame,
It hides from his home town
The honor in his name.