THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
219 
THE EVENING PRIMROSE. 
BY BERNARD BARTON. 
Fair flower, that shunn’st the glare of day. 
Yet lovest to open, meekly bold. 
To evening hues of sober gray, 
Thy cup of paly gold ; 
Be thine the offering, owing long, 
To thee, and to this pensive hour, 
Of the brief tributary song, 
Though transient as thy flower. 
I love to watch at silent eve 
Thy scatter'd blossoms’ lonely light; 
And have my inmost heart receive 
The influence of that sight. 
I love, at such an hour, to mark, 
Their beauty greet the light breeze chill, 
And shine, ’mid shadows gathering dark, 
The garden’s glory still. 
For such, ’tis sweet to think the while, 
When cares and griefs the breast invade 
In friendship’s animating smile, 
In sorrow’s dark’ning shade. 
