11 AUGUST 1888, Page 17

POETRY.

PRIMROSE LEAVES.

NOT always with the Spring its joyaunce closes;

It is Midsummer, love, and while I pass

Among forgotten things,— Dry oak-sprays, faded mosses, woodbine strings,—

The large, clear leaves of primroses Spread through the grass.

Not always with love's flower love perishes ; Long time our passion bath been dead, and still About my heart cloth thrive A memory of thee so green, so live, A solemn power it cherishes To bless and thrill.