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Only a rosebud, sweet and fair,
Down by the roadside growing;
Of other flowers, rich and rare,
And cultured, little knowing.
Content its blushing face to hide
'Mongst its own leaves, as straying
Bees came wandering by its side,
With idle zephyrs playing.


The rosebud blossomed out at last
Into the perfect flower;
And plucked by one who sauntered past
Ere it had bloomed an hour,
Was tossed aside, alas! poor rose!
Which sweeter grew when dying--
And left, all crushed and withering,
Upon the roadside lying.


You understand, you say with scorn,
While listening to my story?
You know which rose one summer morn
You robbed of all its glory?
Ah! man, the heart you cast away
When so it served your pleasure,
My own, for many and many a day
Had worshipped without measure.


She knew it not. I was not worth
The love you held so lightly;
But I could lift it from the earth,
The flower once blooming brightly--
The rose you threw away--ah! yes:
Again to toy with--never!
But mine to worship and to bless,
To keep and hold for ever.