Poems (Storrie)/Evening Primroses
Evening Primroses.
My little hill looks westward to the sea, I know not how it fareth through the day, But when the hours, like tired children lay Their golden heads against the shadowy knee Of their sweet mother Twilight—drowsily Uplifting rosy hands as if to pray, My little hill then lureth me away And holds my spirit in an ecstasy. For, swaying each upon its slender stem There grow the purest flowers that ever gazed With open eyes into a human soul, My little hill, thy primrose diadem In crowning thee hath thoughts within me raised That reign like kings, and conquer all control.