Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere;
  Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough;
  Sweet is the eglantine, but sticketh here;
  Sweet is the firbloome, but its braunches rough;
  Sweet is the cypress, but its rynd is tough;
  Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;
  Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;
  And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.
Amoretti, Sonnet XXVI.  E. SPENSER.

  And ’tis my faith that every flower
  Enjoys the air it breathes.
Lines written in Early Spring.  W. WORDSWORTH.

SPRING.

Daffy-down-dilly came up in the cold,
Through the brown mould
Although the March breezes blew keen on her face,
Although the white snow lay in many a place.
Daffy-Down-Dilly.  A.B.  WARNER.

Darlings of the forest! 
Blossoming alone
When Earth’s grief is sorest
For her jewels gone—­
Ere the last snowdrift melts, your tender buds have blown.
Trailing Arbutus.  R.T.  COOKE.

Ring-ting!  I wish I were a primrose,
A bright yellow primrose blowing in the spring! 
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the elm-tree for our king!
Wishing:  A Child’s Song.  W. ALLINGHAM.

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds. 
Thee when young spring first questioned winter’s sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,
Thee on his bank he threw
To mark his victory.
To an Early Primrose.  H.K.  WHITE.

                             O Proserpina! 
  For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett’st fall
  From Dis’s wagon! daffodils,
  That come before the swallow dares, and take
  The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim,
  But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,
  Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,
  That die unmarried ere they can behold
  Bright Phoebus in his strength.
The Winter’s Tale, Act iv.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

  The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn,
  And violets bathe in the wet o’ the morn.
My Nannie’s Awa’.  R. BURNS.

  A primrose by a river’s brim
  A yellow primrose was to him. 
  And it was nothing more.
Peter Bell.  W. WORDSWORTH.

  The loveliest flowers the closest cling to earth,
  And they first feel the sun:  so violets blue;
  So the soft star-like primrose—­drenched in dew—­
  The happiest of Spring’s happy, fragrant birth.
Spring Showers.  J. KEBLE.

  Primrose-eyes each morning ope
  In their cool, deep beds of grass;
  Violets make the air that pass
  Tell-tales of their fragrant slope.
Home and Travel:  Ariel in the Cloven Pine.  B. TAYLOR.