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.