Primroses

They shine upon my table there,
   A constellation mimic sweet,
No stars in Heaven could shine more fair,
   Nor Earth has beauty more complete;
And on my table there they shine,
And speak to me of things Divine.

In Heaven at first they grew, and when
   God could no fairer make them, He
Did plant them by the ways of men
   For all the pure in heart to see,
That each might shine upon its stem
And be a light from Him to them.

They speak of things above my verse,
   Of thoughts no earthly language knows,
That loftiest Bard could ne'er rehearse,
   Nor holiest prophet e'er disclose,
Which God Himself no other way
Than by a Primrose could convey.

by Martha M. Simpson

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