Buried Treasure

A humble soul of lowly birth,
The poor rag-picker goes
To search for things of valued worth
Among the curs and crows.
He combs the wretched rubbish heap
In hopes he'll glean a flash
Of beaming treasure buried deep
Beneath the mounds of trash.

Among the mildew and the mold
He searches for a glint
Of what might be a ring of gold
Or coin that's newly mint-
Some special little sparkling thing
To please his poor, sweet wife,
To make her weary spirit sing
And ease her pain and strife.

And when returning with mere tin
And some old, tarnished black,
Discarded broach not worth a pin
Down in his worn-thin sack.
With nothing but these pickings slim,
He hangs his head and cries,
His patient wife who waits for him
So poignantly replies:

"My lovely one, now don't you fret
For what you give to me
Are gracious gifts I'll not forget
I'll cherish endlessly.
For you're my rare and precious thing,
My darling, you're my prize,
And there's no diamond ring could bring
More sparkles to my eyes

Than does your heart of purest gold,
Your tender loving care-
Those treasured things not bought or sold
In any market square.
And when I see you risk your health,
The way you sacrifice,
My heart just over-flows with wealth
That is beyond all price.

For there's no costly jewelery
Could shine so bright and true,
And there's no silver finery
Could be as fine as you.
So darling one, please don't despair,
My sweetheart, can't you see,
This is no woman anywhere
As richly blessed as me!"