WILD FLOWERS. 99 
And love it wins—deep love from all 
Who gaze its sweetness on. 
On field-paths narrow, and in woods, 
We meet thee near and far, 
Till thou becomest prized and loved 
As things familiar are! 
The stars are sweet at eventide, 
But cold and far away; 
The clouds are soft in summer time, 
But all unstable they: 
The rose is rich—but pride of place 
Is far too high for me— 
God’s simple common things I love— 
My primrose, such as thee! 
I love the fireside of my home, 
Because all sympathies, 
The feelings fond of every day, 
Around its circle rise. 
And while admiring all the flowers 
That summer suns can give, 
Within my heart the primrose sweet, 
In lowly love doth live! 
