Poem by Arthur Weir

My Treasure

"What do you gather?" the maiden said,
    Shaking her sunlit curls at me--
"See, these flowers I plucked are dead,
        Ah! misery."

"What do you gather?" the miser said,
    Clinking his gold, as he spoke to me--
"I cannot sleep at night for dread
        Of thieves," said he.

"What do you gather?" the dreamer said,
    "I dream dreams of what is to be;
Daylight comes, and my dreams are fled,
        Ah! woe is me."

"What do you gather?" the young man said--
    "I seek fame for eternity,
Toiling on while the world's abed,
        Alone," said he.

"What do I gather?" I laughing said,
    "Nothing at all save memory,
Sweet as flowers, but never dead,
        Like thine, Rosie."

"I have no fear of thieves," I said,
    "Daylight kills not my reverie,
Fame will find I am snug abed,
        That comes to me."

"The past is my treasure, friends," I said,
    "Time but adds to my treasury,
Happy moments are never fled
        Away from me."

"All one needs to be rich," I said,
    "Is to live that his past shall be
Sweet in his thoughts, as a wild rose red,
        Eternally."

1. The Priest and the Minister
2. Champlain
3. Pilot
4. L'Ordre de Bon Temps
5. Carlotta

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