_Memory'S Garden_

Back on its golden hinges The gate of Memory swings, And my heart goes into the garden And walks with the olden things. The old-time, joys and pleasures. The loves that it used to know, It meets there in the garden. And they wander to and fro.

It heareth a peal of laughter, It seeth a face most fair. It thrills with a wild, strange rapture At the glance of a dark eye there; It strayeth under the sunset In the midst of a merry throng, And beats in a tuneful measure, To the snatch of a floating song.

It heareth a strain of music Swell on the dreamy air, A strain that is never sounded, Save in the garden there. It wanders among the roses, And thrills at a long-lost kiss, And glows at the touch of fingers, In a tremor of foolish bliss.

But all is not fair in the garden,-- There's a sorrowing sob of pain; There are tear-drops, bitter, scalding, And the roses are tempest-slain. And I shut the gate of the garden. And walk in the Present's ways. For its quiet paths are better Than the pain of those vanished days!