To June

May's a word 'tis sweet to hear,
Laughter of the budding year ;
Sweet it is to start, and say
On May-morning, " This is May !"
But there also breathes a tune —
Hear it — in the sound of " June."
June's a month, and June's a name,
Never yet hath had its fame.

Summer's in the sound of June,
Summer, and a deepen'd tune
Of the bees, and of the birds, —
And of loitering lovers' words, —
And the brooks that, as they go,
Seem to think aloud, yet low ;
And the voice of early heat.
Where the mirth-spun insects meet ;
And the very colour's tone
Russet now, and fervid grown ;
All a voice, as if it spoke
Of the brown wood's cottage smoke,
And the sun, and bright green oak.
O come quickly, show thee soon,
Come at once with all thy noon,
Manly, joyous, gipsy June.

May, the jade, with her fresh cheek
And the love the bards bespeak.
May, by coming first in sight.
Half defrauds thee of thy right ;
For her best is shared by thee
With a wealthier potency.
So that thou dost bring us in
A sort of May-time masculine,
Fit for action or for rest,
As the luxury seems the best,
Bearding now the morning breeze,
Or in love with paths of trees,
Or dispos'd, full length, to lie
With a hand-enshaded eye
On thy warm and golden slopes,
Basker in the butter-cups.
Listening with nice distant ears
To the shepherd's clapping shears.
Or the next field's laughing play
In the happy wars of hay.
While its perfume breathes all over,
Or the bean comes fine, or clover.
O could I walk round the earth,
With a heart to share my mirth,
With a look to love me ever,
Thoughtful much, but sullen never,
I could be content to see
June and no variety,
Loitering here, and living there,
With a book and frugal tare,
With a finer gipsy time.

And a cuckoo in the clime,
Work at morn, and mirth at noon,
And sleep beneath the sacred moon.