Classic Poem

Who builds him a house of stone or brick,
With a roof against the sky,
And a base where the ivy roots spread thick,
Was born with luck in his eye;
For a house will not start, nor mortar stick,
At a wish or an oath or a sigh.

I know — for I've built as mad men do,
With wishes white and red,
But the wind gets in, the moon shines through,
And the walls shake at my tread;
Who builds him a house of a rhyme or two
Must look for the rain on his head!