PRIMROSE. 
63 
No other flower, no rival grew 
Beside my pensive maid; 
She dwelt alone, a cloister’d nun 
In solitude and shade. 
No sunbeam on that fairy pool, 
Darted its dazzling light; 
Only, methought, some clear, cold star 
Might tremble there at night. 
No ruffling wind could reach her there, 
No eye, methought, but mine; 
Or the young lambs that came to drink, 
Had spied her secret shrine. 
And there was pleasantness to me 
In such belief; — cold eyes 
That slight dear Nature’s loveliness, 
Profane her mysteries. 
Long time I look’d and linger’d there, 
Absorb’d in still delight; 
My spirit drank deep quietness 
In, with that quiet sight. 
The same. — clare. 
Welcome, pale Primrose! starting up between 
Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, that strew 
The very lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 
’Mid creeping moss and ivy’s darker green: 
6 * 
