Caroline Anne Southey

The Primrose

I saw it in my evening walk
A little lonely flower —
Under a hollow bank it grew
Deep in a mossy bower.

An oak's gnarl'd root, to roof the cave,
With Goth fret-work sprung,
Where jewell'd fern, and arum leaves,
And ivy garlands hung.

And close beneath came sparkling out,
From an old tree's fallen shell,
A little rill, that clipt about
The lady in her cell.

And there, methought, with bashful pride,
She seem'd to sit and look
On her own maiden loveliness
Pale imaged in the brook.

No other flower, no rival grew
Beside my pensive maid,
She dwelt alone, a cloister'd nun,
In solitude and shade.

No sunbeam on that fairy pool
Darted its dazzling light —
Only, methought, some clear, cold star,
Might tremble there at night.

No ruffling wind could reach her there —
No eye, methought, but mine,
Or the young lambs that came to drink,
Had spied her secret shine.

And there was pleasantness to me
In such belief — cold eyes
That slight dear nature's loveliness,
Profane her mysteries.

Long time I look'd, and linger'd there,
Absorbed in still delight,
My spirits drank deep quietness
In with that quiet sight.