Evening Primroses

While grey was the summer evening
Hast never a small sprite seen
Lighting the fragrant torches
For the feast of the Faerie Queen?

The buds in the primrose-bushes
Upspring into yellow light,
But ever the wee deft spirit
Escapes my bewildered sight.

Yet oft through the dusky garden
A dainty white moth will fly,
Or, pink as a pink rose-petal,
One lightly will waver by.

Perhaps ’tis the shape he comes in
Perhaps it is he, indeed,
Sir Moth or the merry Cobweb
Or the Whimsical Mustard-Seed!

Helen Gray Cone.