Its perforated walls, its staircase tower
Distinct, a ventilating shaft, a lift
For dust and other objects, and a roof
Of coolest foliage, musical with birds,
Whose songs should syllable MY name. At noon
We’d sit beneath the arching glass and wonder
What a photographer would pay per annum
For such a studio. We’d read no books
That did not treat of drainage—sing no songs
But sanitary lays, that we might smile