Gas got me in the first World War, <br />And all my mates at rest are laid. <br />I felt I might survive them for <br />I am a gardener by trade. <br />My life is in the open air, <br />And kindly is the work I do, <br />Since flowers are my joy and care, <br /> And comfort too. <br /> <br />My flowers are a fairy sight, <br />Yes I'm an ugly, warped old man, <br />For I have lived in Fate's despite <br />A year beyond one's mortal span; <br />And owe my health no gentle toil <br />From dawn to dark, contented hours, <br />Of loving kinship with the soil, <br /> A friend of flowers. <br /> <br />My dahlias are my pride today, <br />And many my creations be. <br />They're worth a fortune, people say, <br />But what does money mean to me? <br />Their glory is my rich reward, <br />And as their radiant heads they raise, <br />I dedicate them to the Lord, <br /> With love and praise. <br /> <br />I grieve to think that sullen Powers <br />On bombs and guns their might depend; <br />If man had heart for growing flowers <br />Then would we all be friend and friend. <br />The glory of the world is his <br />Who seeks salvation in the sod, <br />And finds that golden sunshine is <br /> The laugh of God.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flower-gardener/
