by Karin Boye Some hearts are treasures that never can be done. Their owners strew them generously out in streams of sun. Gratefully we take the gift in cautious hand. Hail and happy, blessed one, who handles gold like sand! Some hearts are fires that burn deep below. In coldest night thrown there a reflection on the snow. Enchanted thus, no one in constant longing burns as he that sees that shimmer one night and forth to the fire yearns.