Poems (Linn)/Primroses
PRIMROSES.
LIKE the snows that lie without,Primrose blossoms meet my eye;And among them, clusters white,Promising a new delightThat shall meet us by and by.
Yet is blight with blossom found;Blasted buds here grieve the sight.What the reason no one knewWhy these died while others grewIn 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 grownOld 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.