In the damp twilight, as the sun sinks and dew pearls the grass, the evening primrose unfolds its petals — pale, nearly as faint as moonlight or the evening star it seems to keep company with. John Clare’s speaker sees the flower as a shy hermit that shuns daylight, choosing instead to offer its beauty to the night. But there’s a tender melancholy here: the night is “blindfold,” unable to see or value the blossom’s quiet caresses. The flower’s loveliness is wasted on the dark. Then morning arrives with its wide, unblinking eye, and the primrose recoils, abashed at being exposed. Immediately it faints, withers, and is gone. The mood is lonely and wistful, a sigh for something exquisite that blooms unseen and dies the moment it’s noticed — as if attention itself destroys it.
Evening Primrose — Summary
When once the sun sinks in the west, And dew-drops pearl the evening's breast; Almost as pale as moonbeams are, Or its companionable star, The evening primrose opes anew Its delicate blossoms to the dew; And, shunning-hermit of 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 till night is bye And day looks out with open eye, Abashed at the gaze it cannot shun, It faints and withers, and is done.