When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark br Makes its mark br On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves br Over fallen leaves; br Then my olden garden, where the golden soil br Through the toil br Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep, br Whispers in its sleep. br br 'Mid the crumpled beds of marigold and phlox, br Where the box br Borders with its glossy green the ancient walks, br There's a voice that talks br Of the human hopes that bloomed and withered here br Year by year,-- br Dreams of joy, that brightened all the labouring hours, br Fading as the flowers. br br Yet the whispered story does not deepen grief; br But relief br For the loneliness of sorrow seems to flow br From the Long-Ago, br When I think of other lives that learned, like mine, br To resign, br And remember that the sadness of the fall br Comes alike to all. br br What regrets, what longings for the lost were theirs! br And what prayers br For the silent strength that nerves us to endure br Things we cannot cure! br Pacing up and down the garden where they paced, br I have traced br All their well-worn paths of patience, till I find br Comfort in my mind. br br Faint and far away their ancient griefs appear: br Yet how near br Is the tender voice, the careworn, kindly face, br Of the human race! br Let us walk together in the garden, dearest heart, br Not apart! br They who know the sorrows other lives have known br Never walk alone.