Her heart is like her garden, 
Old-fashioned, quaint and sweet, 
With here a wealth of blossoms, 
And there a still retreat. 
Sweet violets are hiding, 
We know as we pass by, 
And lilies, pure as angel thoughts, 
Are opening somewhere nigh. 

Forget-me-nots there linger, 
To full perfection brought, 
And there bloom purple pansies 
In many a tender thought. 
There love's own roses blossom, 
As from enchanted ground, 
And lavish perfume exquisite 
The whole glad year around. 

And in that quiet garden- 
The garden of her heart- 
Songbirds are always singing 
Their songs of cheer apart. 

And from it floats forever, 
O'erooming sin and strife, 
Sweet as the breath of roses blown, 
The fragrance of her life. 
~Alice E. Allen