Because I have no garden and
No pence to buy,
Before the flower shop I stand
The beauty of the Springtide spills
In glowing posies
Of voilets and daffodils
And as I see that joy of bloom,
I think of Mother in her room,
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.'