The Poetry of Robert Burns | ||
THE PRIMROSE
I
Dost ask me, why I send thee hereThe firstling of the infant year:
This lovely native of the vale,
That hangs so pensive and so pale?
II
Look on its bending stalk, so weak,That, each way yielding, doth not break,
And see how aptly it reveals
The doubts and fears a lover feels.
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III
Look on its leaves of yellow hueBepearl'd thus with morning dew,
And these will whisper in thine ears:—
‘The sweets of loves are wash'd with tears.’
The Poetry of Robert Burns | ||