IN MEMORY'S GARDEN 



BY THOMAS WALSH 



There is a garden in the twilight lands 

 Of Memory, where troops of butterflies 



Flutter adown the cypress paths, and bands 

 Of flowers mysterious droop their drowsy eyes. 



There through the silken hush come footfalls faint 

 And hurried through the vague parterres ; and sighs, 



Whispering of rapture or of sweet content, 

 Like ceaseless parle of bees and butterflies. 



And by one lonely pathway steal I soon 

 To find the flowerings of the old delight 



Our hearts together knew when lo, the moon 

 Turns all the cypress alleys into white. 



