Harriet Ward Sanborn Grosvenor (22 Jan 1823 – 07 Sep 1863 | Hampton Falls NH – Newburyport MA) poet, writer, novelist.

It was his spirit which made the world joyous to my youthful eye. There was a man,

a wary man who nursed many a plan for making life’s contracted span a path of gold

and gain. It is not much the world can give, with all its subtle art; gold and gems are

not the things that satisfy my heart. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, shrink

to consume the heart, as heat the scroll. Goodness and greatness are not means but

ends. Why dost thou heap up wealth which thou must quit, or what is worse, be left by

it? Here, then, at last, my dust-soiled feet are treading the old home-paths of children’s

vanished prime. There are in this rude, stunning tide of human care and crime, those

who carry music in their hearts. He leaves now; nature leads him as before. A yellow

primrose by river’s brim was nothing more than a primrose to him, his memories past.

Grosvenor, Sanborn Harriet. Noonday: A Lifesketch. New York: Henry Hoyt, 1863. https://archive.org/details/noondayalifeske00grosgoog/page/n14/mode/1up