Antoinette De Coursey Patterson, 'The Treasure Drawer'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

The Treasure Drawer

Often in memory to a drawer I turn
Wherein my mother kept such queer, strange things,
For which with a child’s fancy I would yearn:
An ivory fan, emerald and opal rings,
Attar of roses in a bottle tall
With traceries of Arabesque design,
A pair of velvet slippers, dainty, small—
I doubted Cinderella’s were so fine—
Made up the treasures: and a mother-o’-pearl
And lacquer box, tight locked, of which the key
Had long been lost—since she was quite a girl,
She said. Years passed, and then the mystery
Was solved: three little feathers, golden bright,
Lay side by side, labelled in childish hand
As “Piccadilly’s Feathers.” How my sight
Grew dim, for I at last could understand
The loneliness a pet canary filled.
Ah, I could wish at times those memories,
Like Piccadilly’s songs, might all be stilled—
Or locked in some pearl casket from these eyes!

By Antoinette De Coursey Patterson

"Berries", by Walter de la Mare

[med_cat]

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(reposted from David Malcomson, in the Poets Illustrated FB group)

( same in text format: )