Poetry Archives

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.”