There are gardens filled with flowers that are worth their weight in gold;
There are gardens where the dainty blossoms bend, and nod, and blow
In such glorious profusion that you never need be told
That a good sized fortune has been spent upon each brilliant row!
Yet I know a little garden that is better than them all —
Hidden in the city where life's cross has not a crown —
And the joy it brings its owner is a thing that's good to see — —
It's the little soap box garden here in town.
In an unpretentious courtyard it is growing day by day —
A row of boxes filled with earth, and placed against the wall —
And the strings that lead up from the blossoms seem, somehow, to say
To the struggling flowers, " We are here — climb up, you can not fall. "
There's a white-faced little cripple boy who watches o'er the plants,
And waters them, and sings to them and pats the soft earth down,
And his eyes glow with such happiness when each new leaf appears
In his little soap box garden here in town!
There are no priceless blossoms, such as those we often see
Displayed in rich surroundings, in the florist's window gay;
But those straggly little flowers are as dear as they can be
To one who lives his life apart, — who can't go out and play.
And though the buds he gathers may be small and over-frail,
Each one that grows will straighten out the deepest sort of frown,
So the little cripple proudly picks and gives his flow'rs away —
Love rules his soap box garden here in town!
There are gardens where the dainty blossoms bend, and nod, and blow
In such glorious profusion that you never need be told
That a good sized fortune has been spent upon each brilliant row!
Yet I know a little garden that is better than them all —
Hidden in the city where life's cross has not a crown —
And the joy it brings its owner is a thing that's good to see — —
It's the little soap box garden here in town.
In an unpretentious courtyard it is growing day by day —
A row of boxes filled with earth, and placed against the wall —
And the strings that lead up from the blossoms seem, somehow, to say
To the struggling flowers, " We are here — climb up, you can not fall. "
There's a white-faced little cripple boy who watches o'er the plants,
And waters them, and sings to them and pats the soft earth down,
And his eyes glow with such happiness when each new leaf appears
In his little soap box garden here in town!
There are no priceless blossoms, such as those we often see
Displayed in rich surroundings, in the florist's window gay;
But those straggly little flowers are as dear as they can be
To one who lives his life apart, — who can't go out and play.
And though the buds he gathers may be small and over-frail,
Each one that grows will straighten out the deepest sort of frown,
So the little cripple proudly picks and gives his flow'rs away —
Love rules his soap box garden here in town!