THE primrose blooms at eventide, And, where I go, the highway side It lights up with its yellow blow: What else it does I do not know — Except, all day, with dust bestrown The leaves are gray, and, until blown, The bud is gray, with slight perfume, Till eve unfolds a clean sweet bloom. It grows there in the short green grass Between where foot and carriage pass: Where wheels might crush it, should one ride, And the horse startled sheer aside. It sprang up there, and there hath grown And made the narrow green its own: Chose not a place by nature fair, But made one so by growing there. |