THE miser loves to count his store Of barren ducats o'er and o'er: Above all pomp or pleasure He loves his golden treasure. And I do love to count alone A useless treasure of mine own Heigho! Delights of dreaming, So dear, and only seeming! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS OF TRAVEL: 45. TO S.R. CROCKETT by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON JOHN UNDERHILL by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE ARID LANDS by HERBERT BASHFORD THE FOUNTAIN OF PITY by HENRY BATAILLE MASKS OF DEATH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN PIRATE TREASURE by BERTON BRALEY |