“Her country cousins sweet and shy,
That get their color from the sky,
Are fairer than herself,” said I.
And last of all we came to where
The lilac and the primrose fair
Their breath threw on the heavy air.
My cousin slipped the rows between,
Where yellow blossoms made a screen
Of their own foliage thick and green.
“Ah! this,” she said, “is a surprise,
An English primrose”—soft her eyes,
“Mark what a beauty in it lies!”
“O, primroses!” in careless tone,
Said Nell, “I’ve often seen them grown
Much prettier than this small pale one.”
My cousin bent her soft white cheek
Against the blossoms, pale and meek,
And still she stood and did not speak.
I think a tear or two she shed,
Ere lifted was the golden head,
“Poor little homesick flowers!” she said.
“I wonder do you droop, and dream
Of fleecy cloud, and sunny gleam,
Of meadow wide, and laughing stream.
I wonder if you wait to hear
The children’s voices, shrill and clear—
Sweet! homesickness is hard to bear.”
Then, gave us all a half-shamed look,
Ah, I could read her like a book,
Her heart was in some old world nook.