Wanderer, your early search is vain,
Winter still shews his rugged form;
Still his cold arm lays waste the plain,
And hurls around the icy storm.
Return, o wanderer! To thy cell,
Still on thy treasured honey feast;
For yet no blossom hangs its bell,
Nor yet thy store can be increased.
Wait, wanderer wait, and spring's bright hour,
Shall soon assert his genial sway,
Shall spread the plain with every flower,
Shall with music cover every spray.
Then, little wanderer, thou mayest roam,
And glean thy stores from every bloom,
With honied treasures seek thy home,
Nor dread the power of winter's gloom.