When once the sun sinks in the west,
And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,
The evening primrose opes anew
Its delicate blossoms to the dew
And, hermit-like, shunning the light,
Wastes its fair bloom upon the night
Who, blindfold to its fond caresses
Knows not the beauty he possesses.
Thus it blooms on while night is by
When day looks out with open eye,
'Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun,
It faints and withers and is gone.