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."