Antoinette de Coursey Patterson: The Treasure Drawer

“Often in memory to a drawer I turn
Wherein my mother kept such queer, strange things,
For which with a child’s fancy I would yearn:
An ivory fan, emerald and opal rings,
Attar of roses in a bottle tall
With traceries of Arabesque design,
A pair of velvet slippers, dainty, small—
I doubted Cinderella’s were so fine—
Made up the treasures: and a mother-o’-pearl
And lacquer box, tight locked, of which the key
Had long been lost—since she was quite a girl,
She said. Years passed, and then the mystery
Was solved: three little feathers, golden bright,
Lay side by side, labelled in childish hand
As “Piccadilly’s Feathers.” How my sight
Grew dim, for I at last could understand
The loneliness a pet canary filled.
Ah, I could wish at times those memories,
Like Piccadilly’s songs, might all be stilled—
Or locked in some pearl casket from these eyes!”