Upon a bank I sat, a child made
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is,
I said, to
One small page of Truth's manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear—The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signedI read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim,
I could not
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but the shadow of a
Ghostly among the stars. The years that
Like tired soldiers nevermore have
Moments to see wonders in the grass.
