Granite By Ernest George Henham
Nobody would call the primrose a strongly scented flower, but then not every one had wandered down Love Lane, which was merely a private cart-way circling round Blue Violet and ending at the farm, or Starke's as it was usually called. There the great hedges were yellow with primroses heated by the sun and giving forth an odour of indescribable fulness, not crude and drunken like the breath of exotics which suggests violence and loss of restraint, but in a measure stronger because so delicate That odour of the primrose is spring, only you cannot get it undiluted. The smell of the earth will rise at the same time and the earth remains; the primrose is only a passing pilgrim, saying as it comes and goes, "I am the idyll"; but the earth is there always, saying, "I am the reality."
The author died in 1921, so this work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 80…
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