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 the 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!