Classic Poem

Grow pale, ye primroses,
Grow very pale,
For he is paler still.
Strew far and wide your posies,
Dim, soft posies,
O'er the little hill,
And down the dimpled vale!
But O primroses,
Grow, grow ye very pale,
For he is paler still,
And be your sweet eyes dim
With tears, remembering him!

Remember, dear primroses,
How he would wander here,
And welcome your soft posies
In the spring-time of the year,
And how the little foot would tread
Gently lest it press your head;
And o'er the little hill,
And down the dimpled vale,
He would not gather primroses.
Dim, soft posies:
‘They would be hurt,’ he said.
So grow ye pale, primroses,
For he is paler still,
And be your sweet eyes dim
With tears, remembering him!

Grow pale, ye primroses,
Grow very pale,
For, one who's paler still
With eyes more dim,
Knows not where he reposes,
On some far distant hill,
Or down some shady vale;
But tell your sister-posies
Each spring-time of the year,
To spread a coverlet pale
With gentle hands o'er him
Who now is paler still;
And, ah, primroses,
Say to your sister-posies,
‘Let one small dewdrop tear
Your sweet eyes dim
From dawn till daylight closes,
For one with eyes more dim
With tears, remembering him!’