by Charles S. Kinnison
The old-fashioned flowers seem sweetest to me,
For some fancied reason or orther,
In each fragrant petal there's something I see
That always reminds me of Mother.
The mem'ry it brings me is winsomely sweet,
A mem'ry that never shall perish;
And in it the two of us smiling meet . . .
A love-laden mem'ry I cherish.
We stroll through the garden, and stop here and there,
Admiring the colorful splendor
Of flowers she's planted and nurtured with care,
With hands that were loving and tender.
We stop at the roses and chat for awhile . . .
She tells me how sweetly they're scented,
And there 'midst the flowers our hearts a-smile,
How happy are we and contented!
And here are the zinnias, the sahlias, and phlox,
The sunflowers, nodding and lazy;
And threading among them are neat little walks,
And there is an old-fashioned daisy!
And now as we're leaving the garden, I find,
For some fancied reason or other,
The old-fashioned flowers seem gentle and kind . . .
And so they remind me of Mother.