The Primrose

 

No more from now, called pale and wan,

As though a pitful weak thing!

A sickly offspring of weal Sun

And youngish Spring.

 

Thy father's golden skin is thine,

And his eye's gleam; but his bold rays

Are tempered by thy mother's blood

To softer ways.

 

For thou hast made the banks ooze gold,

And make old woods their darkness break;

In them I would not fall at night

Wert thou awake.

 

Here is the primrose family:

The first born is full blown and tall;

Two in half bloom just reach his chin,

Three are buds small.

 

Then, since the first born healthy seems-

No drooping one I've chanced upon-

It would be speaking false to call

Them pale and wan.

 

They mean the primrose plucked and withered,

Not growing in his golden shine,

Who'd prove by him how Phyllis looks

When she doth pine.

 

Indeed, where find a hardier flower?

Born when the spring wind chilly blows,

Still beautiful in Summer's days-

O rare Primrose!