June.
She sits all day plaiting a wild-rose wreath,
This daughter of the Sun, come from afar.
Sweeter is she than her bright sisters are
Who follow her across the flowery heath.
A daisy is her sign, and underneath
The meadow’s foamy flow the clovers wear
Their uniforms of white and red, and bear
Their cups of sweet to scent their mistress’ breath.
What dawns are thine, O dear, delicious June,
When at the drawing of thy curtain’s fold
The birds awake and sing a marvelous tune
To the young Day that comes in rose and gold!
What twilights when the gray dusk hides thy face
That thou mayst come with more enchanting grace!
Travelers’ Record.