A Primrose awoke from its long winter sleep,
And stretched out its head through its green leaves to peep;
But the air was so cold, and the wind was so keen,
And not a bright flower but itself to be seen.
‘Alas!’ sighed the Primrose, ‘how useless am I,
As here all alone and half hidden I lie;
But I’ll strive to be cheerful, contented to be,
Just a simple wild flower growing under a tree.’
Soon a maiden passed by, looking weary and sad,
In the bright early spring-time, when all should be glad,