A primrose by a river's brimA yellow primrose was to him,And it was nothing more.

Minds that have nothing to conferFind little to perceive.

The fields from Islington to Marybone, / To Primrose Hill and Saint John's Wood, / Were builded over with pillars of gold; / And there Jerusalem's pillars stood.

There's nothing in the middle of the road but a yellow stripe and dead armadillos.

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.