The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art, indeed, by many a claim,
The poet's darling.
"If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie,