And the crowding passers had but a care
For the many flow’rs that were rich and rare.
A mother stopt in the market place,
She saw the flow’rets shining there,
And she thought of her child, with his wan, thin face,
Pining all day in the London square.
She left those lordly, blazing flow’rs,
She thought of her far-off childhood hours;
She took that bunch of flow’rets wild—
Her dearest gift to her crippled child.