MY TREASURE.

“What do you gather?” the maiden said,

Shaking her sunlit curls at me —

“See, these flowers I plucked are dead,

Ah! misery.”

“What do you gather?” the miser said,

Clinking his gold, as he spoke to me —

“I cannot sleep at night for dread

Of thieves,” said he.

“What do you gather?” the dreamer said,

“I dream dreams of what is to be;

Daylight comes, and my dreams are fled,

Ah! woe is me.”

“What do you gather?” the young man said —

“I seek fame for eternity,

Toiling on while the world's abed,

Alone,” said he.

“What do I gather?” I laughing said,

“Nothing at all save memory,

Sweet as flowers, but never dead,

Like thine, Rosie.”

“I have no fear of thieves,” I said,

“Daylight kills not my reverie,

Fame will find I am snug abed,

That comes to me.”

“The past is my treasure, friends,” I said,

“Time but adds to my treasury,

Happy moments are never fled

Away from me.”

“All one needs to be rich,” I said,

“Is to live that his past shall be

Sweet in his thoughts, as a wild rose red,

Eternally.”