A June Day

The month is June, but all the sky is gray.
And to the weary earth seems leaning low;
There is no little breath of wind to blow
The searching perfume of these flowers away
That climbing round my window peer and stay;
The thrush sings, where the branches thickly grow;
The day moves by, with heavy feet and slow;
"Death endeth all," the stillness seems to say.

But Love shall come before Death's nuptial hour;
There sits my queen, and silent — pondering what?
Sees she, as I, Love's joy-environed bower,
Where sweet, conspiring things one sweeter plot;
Or does she hear, 'neath some grave's guardian flower,
Sad sighing of dead loves remembered not?