THE TREASURE

by: Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

      HEN colour goes home into the eyes,
      And lights that shine are shut again,
      With dancing girls and sweet birds' cries
      Behind the gateways of the brain;
      And that no-place which gave them birth, shall close
      The rainbow and the rose: --

      Still may Time hold some golden space
      Where I'll unpack that scented store
      Of song and flower and sky and face,
      And count, and touch, and turn them o'er,
      Musing upon them: as a mother, who
      Has watched her children all the rich day through,
      Sits, quiet-handed, in the fading light,
      When children sleep, ere night.

MORE POEMS BY RUPERT BROOKE

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