It’s just a heap of ruin, A drunken brick carouse— This thing my spirit grew in That once was called a house. An attic where I scribbled Through baking summer days, While street-pianos nibbled At the patient Marseillaise. The spider-landlord squatted In a web of dinner-smells, And people slowly rotted In little gossip-hells. I hated all I learned there— And yet I could have cried For a little oil I burned there. A little dream that died.