Wednesday, May 4, 2011

The Flower Garden

The Flower Garden


Bernardine Oborn

Bernadine and Maurice Oborn; 7-Sep-1947

The Flower Garden

Just outside the garden gate
Where all is Love and never late
Fond lovers stroll from far and near
On summer nights when skies are clear.

I suppose you wonder why they come
Not hosts of them, but always some,
There’s wondrous beauty to be seen
Along the fence, a little stream

With stars above and moon so bright
They cast a gorgeous ray of light,
Roses in wondrous shades to see
For all the world without a fee.

Little children as they play
And romp around from day to day
Never think to touch a rose,
Just stop and look and sort of  pose.

They wonder too in their young minds
‘who is the one whose been so kind?’
The perfume sweet that comes from them
When waving proudly on their stem,
Can ne’er be bought for price of gold
As little babes in arms enfold.

To beautify the garden walls,
The water trickles into Falls,
With such a background in the rear
No wonder everything’s so dear.

A fountain with a soft and gentle spray
Was placed there too, to lend a ray,
Far down the lane but just in sight
Live two dear souls who’ve reached their height.

Not just in inches, do we mean
But things in life, worthwhile, they’ve seen.
Since now they’ve reached a sweet old age
Their deeds of kindness fill a page.

They always loved to work and do
Not like so many, just for two,
But give, and work, and live and strife
Has always been their happy life.

So now, that this glad day is o’er
Their thoughts, to cheer folks, always soar,
So this is why the roses grew
And makes the saddest feel like new.

The joy they reap in bringing cheer
Makes everything in life most dear.
Their journey soon on earth will end
So let’s be kind and not offend.

Enjoy each rose and flower there
Ne’er pluck a one and leave it bare,
For these old folks who placed them there
Will soon be climbing up the stair.

Not in their home that’s just sublime
But higher up in that fair clime,
Not made by hands of men alone
But God, himself, for seeds they’ve sown.

Bernardine Oborn

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