I count my treasures o'er and o'er
Gifts of the past, a golden store,
And time can give me nothing more.
The little ring she used to wear,
A shadow picture, sweet and fair,
Dead violets, and a tress of hair.
Frail keys, that ope to bygone time,
I wander on and reach a clime
Where bells of morning ever chime.
There all my fair possessions lie,
My castles that no wealth can buy
Their golden summits in the sky.
O youth, to feel death's breath of frost!
O little hands too early crossed!
Nor love nor faith can count you lost.
