Midst the dusty pile in cobweb sheath Was lying a treasured wreath Rays from the attic window kindled sporadic shimmer Reminiscent of its once glory and glimmer Circlet embellished in splendid pearls and amethyst Lovely would have been the hand that wrought it Dusting it with my handkerchief I wondered Who’s head would have this once adorned? Did this hold a story or allegory…? Or did it conceal a tale of glory… Of a love sought, fought or lost Or of power, clout or larceny in spite Or did it simply hold the story of a bride Who walked down the aisle in pride? Whatever the tale behind this diadem Wrought in love was each one of its gem Adorning it took me to a fantasy land of sheen and glimmer Till I watched my reflection in the attic mirror Alas I realized I can’t coddle in these pleasures For am just a maid dusting my master’s antique treasures