by Arlo Bates
In grandmamma’s garden in shining rows,
The box smells sweet as it trimly grows ;
The sun-dial quaint the hours tells,
‘Mid foxgloves tall with spotted bells ;
And all is dear, and all is fair,
As childhood’s self had dwelling there.
In grandmamma’s garden a child I played
With naught save bees to make afraid ;
I counted the spots on the foxglove’s cheek,
And knew it could tell, if it would but speak,
How cunning fairies painted them
And made each like a shining gem.
In grandmamma’s garden the foxgloves gay
With every wind would nod and sway ;
Full well I knew that they were wise,
And watched with childhood’s eager eyes
To see them whisper each to each,
And catch the secrets of their speech.
In grandmamma’s garden still I walk,
And still the foxgloves seem to talk.
Their speech not yet my manhood learns,
But when I see them youth returns ;
I wonder at them still in vain,
But with them am a child again.