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 could speak, 
How cunning fairies in the night
had painted each by faint starlight.

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. 

 ...