The Treasure

When colour goes home into the eyes,

And lights that shine are shut

With dancing girls and sweet birds' cries Behind the gateways of the brain;

And that no-place which gave them birth, shall

The rainbow and the rose: —Still may Time hold some golden space Where I'll unpack that scented

Of song and flower and sky and face,

And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,

Musing upon them; as a mother,

Has watched her children all the rich day

Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,

When children sleep, ere night.