Wherein I treasure my God’s gifts.
Think ye to peer therein? Nay.
And should thee by a chance
To catch a stolen glimpse,
Thee’dst laugh amerry, for hord (hoard)
Would show but dross to thee:
A friend’s regard, ashrunked and turned
To naught—but one bright memory is there;
A hope—now dead, but showeth gold hid there;
A host o’ nothings—dreams, hopes, fears;