T is all very well,' said the Rosebud,
That close against my window lattice leans,
'But April is as false as he is fickle,
And there's never any knowing what he means.
He loitered just before me with a whisper
Of mischief much too cunning to detect;
But when I peeped with wonder at the garden,
It wasn't what he led me to expect;
For the rain fell fast
On a rude and chilly blast,
And it wasn't what he led me to expect.'
'It is all very well,' said the Rosebud,
As April softly sighed a fond adieu;
'But after all, I'm sorry you must leave me,
For May's a month I dread much more than you.
She prates of all the wonders of the summer;
She promises—but only to betray,
And those who tell the truth about the spring-time
Are never complimentary to May;
And e'en a baby Rose
Can be pardoned, I suppose,
For feeling some anxiety in May.'
And thus through all the months of happy summer
This foolish Rose no cause for pleasure found,
And when the winds of autumn swept the garden,
They scattered all her petals on the ground.
Oh, let me urge this on you—to remember
That no one should enlarge upon a wrong,
For those who spend their time in idle grumbling
Will find there's not a moment for a song,
And sadly they'll recall,
When the autumn shadows fall,
The summer that was worthy of a song.