THE GARDEN AT HOME 



" Oh ! Memory mocks in phantom dreams 



Of youth long sped ; 

 As though 'twere yesterday it seems 

 Yet years are dead. 



' Oh ! Memory conjures dulcet thought 



Of happier hours ; 



The thorns to bring to life she sought 

 Among the flowers. 



" Dim not these aged eyes with tears ; 



My destiny 



Is shaped ; lift not the veil of years, 

 Oh ! Memory ! " 



But we may all have gardens of friendship. Those 

 of us who have pleasant moments to look back upon 

 may care, in the fragrance of flowers or the sweet scent 

 of leaves, or in gay and lovely blossom, to revive them in 

 happy dreams, and live again, if only in precious moments, 

 days that seem, through the veil of rose with which Time 

 has cloaked them, to have been our very Never Never 

 Land of Romance. 



How small a thing will conjure up dreams a sprig 

 of Lavender, the fragrance of a rose, the purple mist 

 of a group of Starworts, the shimmer of Golden Rod in 

 the autumn sunshine, a leaf of Old Man or Southern- 

 wood, or sweet-scented Verbena ! In one finite moment 

 one's thoughts span a seeming infinity of time, and dreams 

 of other days enrapture us. We have all at some time 

 or another begged a sprig of this or a spray of that from 

 the garden of some dear friend or of some one with whom 



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