Floral Poetry. 
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 looked, and lingered there, 
Absorbed in still delight, 
My spirits drank deep quietness 
In with that quiet sight. 
Caroline Southey. 
PRIMROSE, 
SK me why I send you here 
^ * This firstling of the infant year ; 
Ask me why I send to you 
This Primrose all bepearled with dew ; 
I straight will whisper in your ears, 
The sweets of love are washed with tears. 
Ask me why this Flower doth show 
So yellow, green, and sickly too ; 
Ask me why the stalk is weak, 
And bending, yet it doth not break 
I must tell you, these discover 
What doubts and fears are in a lover. 
Thomas Carcw. 
k* 
-4 
