My Treasure Poem by Arthur Weir

'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.'