I went to Love's old treasure house last night, <br />Alone, when all the world was still -- asleep, <br />And saw the miser Memory, grown gray <br />With years of jealous counting of his gems, <br />There seated. Keen was his eye, his hand <br />Firm as when first his hoarding he began <br />Of precious things of Love, long years ago. <br />"And this," he said, "is gold from out her hair, <br />And this the moonlight that she wandered in, <br />With here a rose, enamelled by her breath, <br />That bloomed in glory 'tween her breasts, and here <br />The brimming sun-cup that she quaffed at noon, <br />And here the star that cheered her in the night; <br />In this great chest, see curiously wrought, <br />Are purest of Love's gems." A ruby key, <br />Enclasped upon a golden ring, he took, <br />With care, from out some secret hiding-place, <br />And delicately touched the lock, whereat <br />I staggered, blinded by the light of things <br />More luminous than stars, and questioned thus -- <br />"What are these treasures, miser Memory?" <br />And slowly bending his gray head, he spoke: <br />"These are the multitudes of kisses sweet <br />Love gave so gladly, and I treasure here."<br /><br />David MacDonald Ross<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-s-treasure-house/
