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. 
