The primrose bank was April sun.
Beneath a hawthorn, robin rich,
With sad, sweet, dappled songs of light,
The primrose bank was every spring.
And every spring the petals poured
Their golden cadence gleaned from years,
From melodies of pastel tints,
From wood, to beck, to changing skies.
The verses flick rebirths of time,
Their delicate and shuttling lines
Which called on rains to fill their voice:
And voices filled, and sun rejoined.
The primrose bank is life to you,
The robin’s song is always new.