Because I have no garden and
No pence to buy,
Before the flower shop I stand
And sigh.
The beauty of the Springtide spills
In glowing posies
Of voilets and daffodils
And roses.
And as I see that joy of bloom,
Sad sighing,
I think of Mother in her room,
Lone lying.
She babbles of the garden fair
Her childhood knew,
And how she gathered roses there
In joyous dew.
I shiver in the street so grey,
Yet still I stop;
In gutter grime it seems so gay,
This flower shop…
‘Oh Mister, could you spare one rose? ‘
(There now, I’m crying) ,
‘For Mother,- every blossom knows
– Is dying.’
