Blossoms growing on the stem,
Blue and white and red and gold.
What a brush has painted them
With their colors manifold!
Planted by the garden way
Underneath a smiling sky,
Do they nod and smile all day
For the weary passer-by.
Blossoms growing by the gate,
Dear and quaint, old-fashioned flowers.
They reck not of time or fate,
Seek no kingdoms, thrones, or powers.
They are well content to bloom
Far from mad ambition’s stress
And to give of their perfume
For a stranger’s happiness.