From my Arm-Chair Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Am I a king, that I should call my own
       &nbsp This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
       &nbsp Can I proclaim it mine?

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
       &nbsp It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
       &nbsp Of old was sung by me.

Well I remember it in all its prime,
       &nbsp When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
       &nbsp A cavern of cool shade.

There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,
       &nbsp Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
       &nbsp And murmured like a hive.

And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
       &nbsp Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
       &nbsp Dropped to the ground beneath.

And now some fragments of its branches bare,
       &nbsp Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
       &nbsp And whisper of the past.