p. 12 | Gardens by Margaret E. Sangster

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D.C. · Oct 25, 1906

Gardens

By Margaret E. Sangster

The wide, fair gardens, the rich, lush gardens, Which no man planted, and no man tills; Their strong seeds drifted, their brave bloom lifted, Near and far over vales and hills; Sip the bees from their cup of sweetness, Poises above them the wild, free wing, And night and morn from their doors are borne The dreams of the tunes that blithe hearts sing.

The waving gardens, the fragrant gardens, That toss in the sun by the broad highway; Growing together, gorse and heather, Aster and goldenrod, all the day, Poppies dark with the wine of slumber, Daisies bright with the look of dawn, The gentian blue, and the long year through The flowers that carry the seasons on.

The dear old gardens, the pleasant gardens, Where mother used to potter about, Trying and pulling, and sparingly culling, And watching each bud as its flower laughed out, Hollyhocks here, and the prince’s feather, Larkspur and primrose and lilies white, Sweet were the dear, old-fashioned gardens Where we kissed the mother and said “Good-night.” —Margaret E. Sangster.