Poems (Linn)/Primroses

by Edith Willis Linn

PRIMROSES.

LIKE the snows that lie without,
Primrose blossoms meet my eye;
And among them, clusters white,
Promising a new delight
That shall meet us by and by.

Yet is blight with blossom found;
Blasted buds here grieve the sight.
What the reason no one knew
Why these died while others grew
In the same sweet air and light.

It was chance I hear you say,
Withering blight for some should be;
Chance for flower, means chance for soul.
Whether germ or perfect whole,
Law is ever unity.

This a question men have grown
Old in striving to make plain;
In this primrose's blighted spray,
Lieth will or destiny,
Unseen good or purpose vain.

Love must put the problem by.
Loss or gain or chance or plan,
Who is wise enough to know?
Meanwhile they as I must grow—
Life of flower is life of man.