Poems (Douglas)/To the Primrose

by Sarah Parker Douglas

To the Primrose.

I love, I love thee, primrose:
 Thou 'rt to me the fairest flower
That decorates the garden,
 Or blooms in nature's bower.
Let other eyes love gazing
 On the blue Forget-me-not,
As to the heart it whispers
 From the streamlet's side and grot;

But I love, I love thee, primrose,
 Gentle daughter of the Spring!
There's a magic in thy perfume,
 As it scents the breeze's wing.
There's a spell around thee clinging,
 There's a language speaking there,
Which leads my fancy backward
 To the sunny days that were.

I love, I love thee, primrose:
 As I gaze, the veil which time
Flings o'er the past is lifted,
 And sweet meadows in their prime
Seem spread, where young ones sporting
 Fill with mirth each verdant wild,
And again I mingle with them,
 And still deem myself a child.

And again, sweet, modest primrose,
 Fragrant gems of thee we bring,
As we ramble o'er the meadow
 To seek rushes for our string;
And to bind our dewy treasures,
 Sit us down by some bright stream;—
Oh! that mirth still floats around me,
 Like glad voices in a dream.

I love, I love thee, primrose,
 Type of life's young morn art thou,
For thou bloom'st 'neath beams and showers,
 Light as fall on childhood's brow;
Oh! I never see thy vesture,
 With its chaste and simple dye,
But my heart seems overflowing
 With a strangely mournful joy.