Classic Poem

Reading this book, I see an attic room
——Brimful of heaps of dimly-shining stuff,
——Tumbled upon the floor. Here is enough
To fashion wingèd Caps till day of doom.
This yarn is shimmering with a frosty bloom
——Of colours overlaid as with a rough
——Patina of snow crystals. See! A puff
Of wind blows jewelled chaff to spark the gloom.
——It seems the storehouse of raw poesy,
Where unspun dreams are waiting to be bought,
And where unwoven tapestries of thought
——Lie ripe for the large looms of prophecy.
A little handful of this harvesting
Would make most poets an ample covering.