JUNE.
Oh, I'm weary of the town,
Where life's too hard for smiling—and the dreary houses frown,
And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats
Upon the miles of dusty roofs—the dreary squares and streets;
This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's—the golden cross and dome,
Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?
Our little church is gray,
It stands upon a hill-side—you can see it miles away,
The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.
I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,
When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,—
Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.
There are elm trees all around
Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,
And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,
And you hear the low of cattle—where the red farm buildings are;
Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,
And forget the cruel city—on this first blue day of June!
The grass is high—I know;
And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;
But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day—
It would only be to count my dead—whom God has taken away.
That graveyard where the daisies grow—not yet my heart can bear
To pass that way—but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!