- Primula
Wandering through these foreign fields,
So far from my people's distant land;
Alone amidst many, yet surrounded I am.
Men, golden as leaves, how they furl and fade;
They fall to the ground and are swept away.
None here find rest midst long, waking dreams,
The seabirds call will not rend their heart;
They are not for these
But mine.

Moving among them; how they whirl and fall!
So soon forgetting once they have wept.
Their turning years slip so swiftly by
Past my people that stand like trees through time -
They whisper, like drifts a storm has swept.
Brief candles, no ages for forest speech;
The deep-scented depths of wood, of time;
They are not for these
But mine.