SONG OF THE PRIMROSES

Listen to the infant breeze,

Clutching at the nippled trees,

Where our yellow flowers are blowing,

Where the rivulet is flowing.

Over all the blue-cupped sky

Silver brooding clouds swim by;

See! The firstling swallow flying,

Later, owlets will be crying.

Come and mark the painter sun

Daub the earth with golden fun;

Hear the larches’ fingers snapping,

As if goblin hands were clapping.

Smell the rain-sweet, thymy earth,

Feel the wonder of rebirth!

Far away a cuckoo's calling,

Notes that sound like twin bells falling.

Then a clearer voice replies

To his echo ere it dies,

And the blackbirds’ voices mingle

With th’ Eistedfodd in the dingle.

Gold-green poplars slowly wave

O'er the Winter's mossy grave;

Ferns are pointing curly fingers

Where the dead year's bracken lingers.

We have seen a hedgehog hide

Prickle-less to greet his bride;

Watched the baby otter shiver

Ere he plunged into the river.

We are critics of the bees,

Watch how they despoil and seize

From each cowslip saffron bounty;

Uncaught robbers of the county!

All the keenings of the bat,

Whimperings of the water-rat;

All the hopes of sister flowers

Come to us by gossip showers.

Tortoise-shelled butterflies,

On their dew-pearl'd wingful sighs,

Bear the news of elfin squabbles;

“Wounded Oberon still hobbles.”

We are darlings of the Spring,

All her secrets she doth bring,

Runes of magic she discloses

To her confidant-Primroses.

We shall feel her joy-winged sigh,

When she hears the Summer's cry:

We shall droop and die of grieving,

When our lovely Spring is leaving.