GRANDMOTHER’S GARDEN
This was the garden that Grandmother made,
Here in the filtering sunlight and shade.
Here grew the delicate, old-fashioned posies,
Columbine, larkspur, cinnamon roses,
Balsam and lavender, briar and box,
Pale mignonette and chintz hollyhocks;
Neatest of paths for the tiniest feet,
Wandering, wavering, all through the sweet.
And there, quite the prettiest blossom of all,
Mother went tiptoeing when she was small.
This is the garden that Grandmother made—
New buds to open as older ones fade.
With her wee waterpot making the showers,
My mother dallied with her mother’s flowers;
Quaint little figure with cheeks like a rose,
Starched pantalettes and slippers with bows;
Bonny brown hair and a bonnet of straw,
And the merriest eyes that the sun ever saw.
But for Grandmother’s garden and all that was in it,
Why, where should I be this blessed minute?