Classic Poem

There are all kinds of men
Who have done me good turns,
That I still never think about,
Not for a minute;
Yet if I were making up
That sort of grace,
They would all of them have
To be in it.

One man made up stories,
Another wrote verses
I found, and I liked,
And I read till I knew them.
Another one saw
All the things they had written,
Then, being an artist,
He drew them.

Another took wood
And a saw and some glue,
And put each of them just
In the place that would need it—
So that is the chair
Where I sit with my book
And am so much at ease
As I read it.

I'm forgetting the one
Who read tale after tale
When I was too young
To know letter from letter,
And the other who taught me them,
Till in the end
I could read for myself—
Which was better.