| Evening Primrose |
| John Clare |
| When once the sun sinks in the west, And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast, Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opens anew The delicate blossoms to the dew; And, shunning-hermit of the light, Wastes its fair bloom upon the night, Who, blindfolded to its fond caresses, Knows not the beauty it posesses. Thus it blooms on till night is by And day looks out with open eye, Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers, and is done. |