June

June, with its roses — June!
The gladdest month of our capricious year,
With its thick foliage and its sunlight clear;

And with the drowsy tune
Of the bright leaping waters, as they pass
Laughingly on amid the springing grass!

Earth, at her joyous coming,
Smiles as she puts her gayest mantle on;
And Nature greets her with a benison;

While myriad voices, humming
Their welcome song, breathe dreamy music round,
Till seems the air an element of sound.

The overarching sky
Weareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue,
As if the light of heaven were melting through

Its sapphire home on high;
Hiding the sunshine in their vapoury breast,
The clouds float on like spirits to their rest.

A deeper melody,
Pour'd by the birds, as o'er their callow young
Watchful they hover, to the breeze is flung —

Gladsome, yet not of glee —
Music heart-born, like that which mothers sing
Above their cradled infants slumbering.

On the warm hill-side, where
The sunlight lingers latest, through the grass
Peepeth the luscious strawberry! As they pass,

Young children gambol there,
Crushing the gather'd fruit in playful mood,
And staining their bright faces with its blood.

A deeper blush is given
To the half-ripen'd cherry, as the sun
Day after day pours warmth the trees upon,

Till the rich pulp is riven;
The truant schoolboy looks with longing eyes,
And perils limb and neck to win the prize.

The farmer, in his field,
Draws the rich mould around the tender maize;
While Hope, bright-pinion'd, points to coming days,

When all his toil shall yield
An ample harvest, and around his hearth
There shall be laughing eyes and tones of mirth.

Poised on his rainbow-wing.
The butterfly, whose life is but an hour,
Hovers coquettishly from flower to flower,

A gay and happy thing;
Born for the sunshine and the summer-day,
Soon passing, like the beautiful, away!

These are thy pictures, June!

Brightest of summer-months — thou month of flowers!
First-born of beauty, whose swift-footed hours

Dance to the merry tune
Of birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout
Of childhood on the sunny hills peal'd out.

I feel it were not wrong
To deem thou art a type of heaven's clime,
Only that there the clouds and storms of time

Sweep not the sky along;
The flowers — air — beauty — music — all are thine,
But brighter — purer — lovelier — more divine!