When colour goes home into the eyes, <br />And lights that shine are shut again <br />With dancing girls and sweet birds’ cries <br />Behind the gateways of the brain; <br />And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close <br />The rainbow and the rose:— <br /> <br />Still may Time hold some golden space <br />Where I’ll unpack that scented store <br />Of song and flower and sky and face, <br />And count, and touch, and turn them o’er, <br />Musing upon them; as a mother, who <br />Has watched her children all the rich day through <br />Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light, <br />When children sleep, ere night.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-treasure-2/
