I opened wide the Portal of the Temple of the Years, And passed adown the vista of the aisle of buried tears, Which once my feet had trodden in their deeply furrowed way, The _via dolorosa_ of all we of earthly clay. I sought the aisle of Memories, where in niches finely wrought Were long, long rolls of archives of good and evil thought; I took a scroll, and while I read, the scalding tears would flow, When I saw inscribed the errors of the days of long ago. And then I saw my mother as in the years of old, And all the beauty of her mind she did to me unfold, And spoke to me as erstwhile in her sweet, glowing voice, And told me that each good deed made Angels in Heaven rejoice. Oh, she above, long, long has lived, but still I feel quite sure Her spirit watches over me just as in the days of yore, And when I leave Earth’s twilight, and part from all I love, From the Temple of the Years I’ll go to join her there above. THE WEAVERS. Each day we weave, unseen, the web of Fate With threads of tenderest love or threads of hate; The strands are slender when they are unfurled, Yet strong to reach some soul across the world. With Beauty’s shuttle weave we dews which prism sweet The morning air before the noonday heat, Or web of roses’ attar redolent, Bedewed with silver mist of memories blent. Oh! Fragrant memory, with its vibrant power, Weaving in daylight, or in evening hour Some poet’s lay to touch the human heart With golden music of the minstrel’s art. The Past and Gone are woven, and the Present now Is in the web, with cruel, thorny bough, For some frail mortals; but the Angel Sleep Weaves ever future joys for those who weep. The wind within the trees doth weave a melody, The bright-winged birds weave dulcet harmony With their alluring notes, and wood nymphs hear And weave a sonnet for their lover’s ear. Whether we in seclusion weave where none intrude On mountain steep or in deep solitude Of the dense bush, or mossy fen, or glade, We weave our bed with web which we have made. Then let us dream, and weave that no remorse With silent shadow clouds our future course, With love to guide, whose eyes wax never dim, While weaving make some lives one long sweet hymn. THE JACARANDA. Once in a garden, Oh! So fair! Was a leafy path, and I tell not where, But it led to an arbor beneath the shade Of a jacaranda, where sunlight played And flickered and flashed through the tasselled leaves In the crimson flush of long summer eves, And in web and woof of the trellised roof From sweet birds’ throats fell golden notes.