‘In the hush of early dawn,
A primrose lifts its tender face,
Bathed in dew, a fragile fawn,
A quiet herald of nature’s grace.
Its petals pale, yet softly gleam,
A whisper of love, a fleeting sigh,
Through sunlight’s kiss and shadowed dream,
It bends, it sways, yet does not die.
The primrose path, a gentle way,
Where butterflies on petals dip,
And morning light begins to play,
Reflecting stars in nature’s script.
Though small, it holds a world within,
A promise of life, of hope anew,
Through summer sun and autumn wind,
Its steadfast bloom forever true.’
by Robert Burns
‘…And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
That I might simply fancy there One little flower -- a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.’
-Anne Bronte
‘In the hush of early dawn,
A primrose lifts its tender face,
Bathed in dew, a fragile fawn,
A quiet herald of nature’s grace.
Its petals pale, yet softly gleam,
A whisper of love, a fleeting sigh,
Through sunlight’s kiss and shadowed dream,
It bends, it sways, yet does not die.
The primrose path, a gentle way,
Where butterflies on petals dip,
And morning light begins to play,
Reflecting stars in nature’s script.
Though small, it holds a world within,
A promise of life, of hope anew,
Through summer sun and autumn wind,
Its steadfast bloom forever true.’
by Robert Burns
‘…And called my willing soul away,
From earth, and air, and sky;
That I might simply fancy there One little flower -- a primrose fair,
Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
A source of strange delight.’
-Anne Bronte
