‘I’m never alone in the garden,’ he said. ‘I’m
never alone with the flowers.
It seems like I’m meeting the wonderful dead
out here with these blossoms of ours.
An’ there’s never a bush or a plant or a tree, but
somebody loved it of old.
An’ the souls of the angels come talkin’ to me
through the petals of crimson an’ gold.
‘The lilacs in spring bring the mother once more,
an’ she lives in the midsummer rose.
She smiles in the peony clump at the door, an’
sings when the four o’clocks close.
She loved every blossom God gave us to own, an’
daily she gave it her care.
So never I walk in the garden alone, for I feel
that the mother’s still there.
‘These are the pinks that a baby once kissed,
still spicy with fragrance an’ fair.
The years have been long since her laughter I’ve
missed, but her spirit is hovering there.
The roses that ramble and twine on the wall were
planted by one that was kind
An’ I’m sure as I stand here an’ gaze on them all,
that his soul has still lingered behind.
‘I’m never alone in the garden,’ he said, ‘I
have many to talk with an’ see,
For never a flower comes to bloom in its bed, but
it brings back a loved one to me.
An’ I fancy whenever I’m bendin’ above these
blossoms of crimson an’ gold,
That I’m seein’ an’ hearin’ the ones that I love,
who lived in the glad days of old.’