The Treasure Box by Robert Graves

Ann in chill moonlight unlocks / Her polished brassbound treasure-box, / Draws a soft breath, prepares to spread / The toys around her on the bed. / She dips for luck: by luck pulls out / A silver pig with ring in snout, / The sort that Christmas puddings yield; / Next comes a painted nursery shield / Boy-carved; and then two yellow gloves, / A Limerick wonder that Ann loves, / Leather so thin and joined so well / The pair fold in a walnut shell; / Here's patchwork that her sister made / With antique silk and flower brocade, / Small faded scraps in memory rich / Joined each to each with feather-stitch; / Here's cherry and forget-me-not.

Ribbon bunched in a great knot; / A satin purse with pansies on it; / A Tudor baby's christening bonnet; / Old Mechlin lace minutely knit / (Some woman's eyes went blind for it); / And Spanish broideries that pinch / Three blossomed rosetrees to one inch; / Here are Ann's brooches, simple pins, / A Comet brooch, two Harlequins, / A Posy; here's a great resplendent / Dove-in-bush Italian pendant; / A Chelsea gift-bird; a toy whistle; / A halfpenny stamped with the Scots thistle; / A Breguet watch; a coral string; / Her mother's thin-worn wedding ring; / A straw box full of hard smooth sweets; / A book, the _Poems of John Keats_; / A chessman; a pink paper rose; / A diary dwindling to its close / Nine months ago; a worsted ball; / A patchbox; a stray match -- that's all, / All but a few small treasured scraps / Of paper; things forbid perhaps -- / See how slowly Ann unties / The packet where her heartache lies; / Watch her lips move; she slants a letter / Up towards the moon to read it better, / (The moon may master what he can).