EVENING PRIMROSES.
While gray was the summer evening,Hast never a small sprite seenLighting the fragrant torchesFor the feast of the Fairy Queen?The buds on the primrose-bushesUpspring into yellow lightBut ever the wee deft spiritEscapes my bewildered sight.Yet oft, through the dusky garden,A dainty white moth will fly,Or, pink as a pink rose-petal,One lightly will waver by.Perhaps ’tis the shape he comes in,Perhaps it is he indeed,Sir Moth, or the merry Cobweb,Or the whimsical Mustard-seed!
While gray was the summer evening,Hast never a small sprite seenLighting the fragrant torchesFor the feast of the Fairy Queen?The buds on the primrose-bushesUpspring into yellow lightBut ever the wee deft spiritEscapes my bewildered sight.Yet oft, through the dusky garden,A dainty white moth will fly,Or, pink as a pink rose-petal,One lightly will waver by.Perhaps ’tis the shape he comes in,Perhaps it is he indeed,Sir Moth, or the merry Cobweb,Or the whimsical Mustard-seed!
While gray was the summer evening,Hast never a small sprite seenLighting the fragrant torchesFor the feast of the Fairy Queen?
While gray was the summer evening,
Hast never a small sprite seen
Lighting the fragrant torches
For the feast of the Fairy Queen?
The buds on the primrose-bushesUpspring into yellow lightBut ever the wee deft spiritEscapes my bewildered sight.
The buds on the primrose-bushes
Upspring into yellow light
But ever the wee deft spirit
Escapes my bewildered sight.
Yet oft, through the dusky garden,A dainty white moth will fly,Or, pink as a pink rose-petal,One lightly will waver by.
Yet oft, through the dusky garden,
A dainty white moth will fly,
Or, pink as a pink rose-petal,
One lightly will waver by.
Perhaps ’tis the shape he comes in,Perhaps it is he indeed,Sir Moth, or the merry Cobweb,Or the whimsical Mustard-seed!
Perhaps ’tis the shape he comes in,
Perhaps it is he indeed,
Sir Moth, or the merry Cobweb,
Or the whimsical Mustard-seed!