A nosegay of old-fashioned flowers came today That grew in a garden just over the way, From a friend who's as quaintly old-fashioned as they. The memories a bunch of gay posies can bring, The voices that out of the past seem to ring, The yesteryear faces that suddenly spring, And people the shadows that silently creep As the twilight veil falls over valley and steep, When silvered by moonlight the earth lies asleep. Then fancy goes roaming in far-away land To a garden where holly-hocks tall used to stand Near the ivy-arched gate—stately sentinels grand. Sweet mignonette, peonies, marigolds, pinks, The red poppy cup where a butterfly drinks, Forms each in its season fond memory links. 'Twas here, when the crimson and gold tulip-bed Was flaunting its colors, I happily read My first composition on printed page spread. 'Neath the chesnut, while near grew the bridal-wreath white, The old story was told in the mellow moonlight. (Did ever the myriad stars shine so bright?) And roses—a riot of every shade From this garden, the altar and chancel arrayed And furnished an armful for one tearful maid On that sunny June day, she as a young bride, Her happiness did to another confide, And wandered afar from the home's bright fireside. Ay, a bouquet of old-fashioned flowers can tell Of the joys that are past, and the sorrows as well, That in old-fashioned gardens, as elsewhere, my dwell. |