Volume 8 — The Evening Primrose.

Of twilight and fresh dews, Most odorous flower, thou art the child; Adorning evening's pensive hues With splendors mild. A vesper acolyte, Born, but for this one night, To swing thy golden censer of perfume, While stars the tranquil firmament illume, For heaven's delight. Thy term of service, fleet, Creative wish doth meet; A swift existence; but which this rare grace Of ceaseless worship, filling life's brief space, Crowns as complete. Thy blissful vigil keep, Rapt flower, while others sleep: Adoring angels claim thee from above A dear companion in their task of love; And I would fain present, With worshipful intent, Thy dewy blossoms on my evening shrine; A contrite homage; sighing to repair, With the accepted incense of thy prayer, For sloth like mine.