A primrose by the river’s brim
A yellow primrose was to him
And a great deal more—
A primrose by the river’s brim
Lit up its pallid yellow glim
Upon the floor—
And watched old Father William trim
His course beside the river’s brim
And trembled sore—
The yokel, going for a swim
Had very nearly trod on him
An hour before.
And now the poet’s fingers slim
Were reaching out to pluck at him
And hurt him more.
Oh gentlemen, hark to my hymn!
To be a primrose is my whim
Upon the floor,
And nothing more.
The sky is with me, and the dim
Earth clasps my roots. Your shadows skim
My face once more....
Leave me therefore
Upon the floor;
Say au revoir....
Ah William! The “something more” that the primrose was to you, was yourself in the mirror. And if the yokel actually got as far as beholding a “yellow primrose”, he got far enough.
You see it is not so easy even for a poet to equilibrate himself even with a mere primrose. He didn’t leave it with a soul of its own. It had to have his soul. And nature had to be sweet and pure, Williamish. Sweet-Williamish at that! Anthropomorphised! Anthropomorphism, that allows nothing to call its soul its own, save anthropos: and only a special brand, even of him!
Poetry can tell alluring lies, when we let our feelings, or our ego, run away with us.