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The Treasure

When 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.
Other works by Rupert Brooke...



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