Old memories come trooping down
The vistas of the years;
In blue-girt robes of pleasure clad
Or garbed in tears.
Down from the days when hope was young
And sorrow never born,
My thoughts sweep o'er remembered scenes
Unto this morn.
Though motley company they are
Of smile or tear or frown,
They hold aloft the burnished gold
Of my heart's crown.
For through it all and over all
There gleams the light serene,
On purpled walls and crimson heights
In love's demesne.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem