Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1670/Primroses
Sweet primroses! I hold you dear,
That heedless are of me;
You have no ears, my words to hear,
No eyes, my gaze to see.
You love the rain, that swells each bud;
The sun, that bids you blow;
The breeze, that calms your gentle blood,
And sways you to and fro.
But I am least of all to you;
For what have I to give?
What can I add of pleasure new
To your one joy, — to live?
And yet the sunshine finds no bliss,
To smile, and win your smiles;
The breeze is careless of the kiss,
It takes or gives by whiles.
While I, who love, must yearn in vain,
For all I take of you,
To give to you such joy again,
As gives one drop of dew.
And you, fair flowers of joy and light,
Blessed above all remain,
To give such delicate delight,
And take no gift again!