THE TREASURE
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hen colour goes home into the eyes,And lights that shine are shut againWith dancing girls and sweet birds' criesBehind the gateways of the brain;And that no-place which gave them birth, shall closeThe rainbow and the rose:-- Still may Time hold some golden spaceWhere I'll unpack that scented storeOf song and flower and sky and face,And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,Musing upon them; as a mother, whoHas watched her children all the rich day throughSits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,When children sleep, ere night.
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