I AM seeking, but vainly, a rose-bud for thee,
With the morning's young blush on its delicate cheek;
In which nature's image reflected shall be,
And whose perfume of undying friendship shall speak.

The snow-drop, the daisy, I have passed in my way,
The jessamine sleeps by yon rivulet clear;
They have oped their soft eyes to the beauties of day,
But the bud I am seeking, alas! is not here.

I asked of a sunbeam that carelessly played
With the hues it had lent to the butterfly's wing; —
Content thee to gather these blossoms, it said,
And the bud thou art seeking ere long will I bring.

I asked the light zephyr, that sportive and gay
Had stolen a sigh from the violet's breast;
But it merrily laughed as it floated away,
And sank on the bell of a lily to rest.

Then take thou this chaplet, 'twas woven for thee,
Its flowers, though simple, are lovely and meek;
Thou wilt prize them perhaps, though they humble may be,
And to-morrow the rose-bud again will I seek.