The Foxglove

In grandmamma's garden in shining rows,

The box smells sweet as it trimly grows;

The sun-dial quaint the hours tells,

'Mid foxgloves tall with spotted bells;

And all is dear, and all is fair,

As childhood's self had dwelling there.

In grandmamma's garden a child I played

With naught save bees to make afraid;

I counted the spots on the foxglove's cheek,

And knew it could tell, if it would but speak,

[How cunning fairies painted them

And made each like a shining gem.]

In grandmamma's garden the foxgloves gay

With every wind would nod and sway;

Full well I knew that they were wise,

And watched with childhood's eager eyes

To see them whisper each to each,

And catch the secrets of their speech.

In grandmamma's garden still I walk,

And still the foxgloves seem to talk.

Their speech not yet my manhood learns,

But when I see them youth returns;

I wonder at them still in vain,

But with them am a child again.