AT Reigate, underneath the trees, <br />The autumn ferns were crisped with brown; <br />And, fluttering on a fitful breeze, <br />The autumn-leaves came softly down. <br />As underneath a tree we stopped, <br />An ornament of gold I dropped,-- <br />Searched for in vain by wistful eyes; <br />For there until this hour it lies <br />Beneath some curving fern. <br />Winter will bury it with leaves, <br />And if some future spring upheaves <br />A golden blossom on the sprout, <br />A fallen acorn then puts out <br /> <br />My little gem, obscured so long, <br />May wake a wandering poet's song, <br />Who, heedless of his steps, may pass, <br />And there, amidst the tangled grass, <br />Its shining may discern. <br /> <br />Just so some little word may fall <br />From some one lip, forgot by all; <br />Buried beneath a thousand days, <br />While every season overlays <br />Its freshness more and more. <br />At length some thought, profound and slow, <br />Within the public heart shall grow, <br />Such life and force from many a pen, <br />And shape its inner life for men, <br />Who add it to their store. <br />And when its breathing depths are stirred, <br />Lo! in its bosom--lies the word!<br /><br />Bessie Rayner Parkes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dropped-trinket/
