Poems (Storrie)/Evening Primroses
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Evening Primroses.
My little hill looks westward to the sea,
I know not how it fareth through the day,
But when the hours, like tired children lay
Their golden heads against the shadowy knee
Of their sweet mother Twilight—drowsily
Uplifting rosy hands as if to pray,
My little hill then lureth me away
And holds my spirit in an ecstasy.
For, swaying each upon its slender stem
There grow the purest flowers that ever gazed
With open eyes into a human soul,
My little hill, thy primrose diadem
In crowning thee hath thoughts within me raised
That reign like kings, and conquer all control.
I know not how it fareth through the day,
But when the hours, like tired children lay
Their golden heads against the shadowy knee
Of their sweet mother Twilight—drowsily
Uplifting rosy hands as if to pray,
My little hill then lureth me away
And holds my spirit in an ecstasy.
For, swaying each upon its slender stem
There grow the purest flowers that ever gazed
With open eyes into a human soul,
My little hill, thy primrose diadem
In crowning thee hath thoughts within me raised
That reign like kings, and conquer all control.