“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.”