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.