I know a little garden path, 
And tread it every day;
Great dusky roses grow thereby, 
And set along the way
Are strange tall lilies silver white 
And purple as they sway.

The hour is late when I go down 
Between their solemn rows,
All golden tawny is the West 
And hushed to deep repose,
A fragrance thrills upon the air, 
And silence with me goes.

Yet, as I pass, I hear a voice 
That calls again to me;
And where the lilies crowd and sigh 
I look but dare not see!
And in the dark the garden fades, 
And leaves me memory.