My real estate is birds and flowers. And sweeps of summer sky, And shining holy morning hours, And breezes passing by. My most unreal estate is dirt, With houses piled on top, Reckoned in figures bare and curt, And smelling of the shop. My real estate is never spent, Its titles all are clear, It pays a wonderful per cent By day and month and year. It needs no fence of iron or wood, No agent must be hired. Its price -- that it be understood, Its tax -- to be admired. While I am rich in real estate, Away with that inert Ignoble and degenerate Unreal estate of dirt! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FEARS AND SCRUPLES by ROBERT BROWNING FRAGMENT by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE LAMENT OF THE OUTALISSI by THOMAS CAMPBELL THE MEASURE OF TIME by ALICE CARY EFFIE'S REASONS by PHOEBE CARY THE WORLD OF DREAMS by GEORGE CRABBE |