Poems (Douglas)/To the Primrose

by Sarah Parker Douglas

To the Primrose.

I love, I love thee, primrose: Thou 'rt to me the fairest flowerThat 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 timeFlings o'er the past is lifted, And sweet meadows in their primeSeem 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.