A ROSEBUD, withered and broken,
I tenderly take from its nest,
'Mid the tumbled neckties and rubbish
In my bureau distressingly messed.
And its sweet faint perfume reminds me,
As its leaves I lovingly smell,
Of the bright-eyed, laughing maiden,
On whose bosom it rose and fell.
The waltzes in old "Massachusetts,"
The "Spread" in Lyceum Hall,
The rush for the wreaths on the elm-tree, -
In fancy I now see them all.
How sweet was the stroll in the moonlight,
'Neath the boughs of the lantern-lit trees,
With music and hum of low voices,
Borne faintly along on the breeze.
And so though the blasts of the north-wind
May whirl the sharp sleet 'gainst the pane,
To the bright sunny days of the summer
These leaflets recall me again.
J. T. W.
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