JUNE

Long, long ago, it seems, this summer morn

That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread

Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed

Woke the arbutus with her silver horn;

And now May, too, is fled,

The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,

With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet,

Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay

With tulips and the scented violet.

Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue

And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more

The snowy trilliums crowd the forest's floor;

The purpling grasses are no longer young,

And summer's wide-set door

O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth

Lets in the torrent of the later bloom,

Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,

The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume.

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