  Who tells you, sweet primrose, 'tis time to wake up After dreaming all day? Who changes so quickly your sombre green dress To the yellow one gay, And makes you the pet of the twilight's caress, And of poet's sweet lay? Who does, primrose, pray? The primrose, secure on his emerald throne, Looked up quickly to say, "A dear lovely fairy glides down from his throne In the sun's golden ray, Saying, 'Now is your day.' And lo! when he's gone we are filled with surprise At our wondrous array, So fresh and so gay. Do tell us the name of this fairy, I pray, Who gives of his beauty, and then hies away Without thanks, without pay. Does he linger your way?" |
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