Because I have no garden and <br /> No pence to buy, <br />Before the flower shop I stand <br /> And sigh. <br />The beauty of the Springtide spills <br /> In glowing posies <br />Of voilets and daffodils <br /> And roses. <br /> <br />And as I see that joy of bloom, <br /> Sad sighing, <br />I think of Mother in her room, <br /> Lone lying. <br />She babbles of the garden fair <br /> Her childhood knew, <br />And how she gathered roses there <br /> In joyous dew. <br /> <br />I shiver in the street so grey, <br /> Yet still I stop; <br />In gutter grime it seems so gay, <br /> This flower shop . . . <br />"Oh Mister, could you spare one rose?" <br /> (There now, I'm crying), <br />"For Mother,--every blossom knows <br /> --Is dying."<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-flower-shop/
