June
Whence are thy wooings, gentle June?
Thou hast a Naiad's charm;
Thy breezes scent the rose's breath;
Old Time gives thee her palm. [5]
The lark's shrill song doth wake the dawn;
The eve-bird's forest flute
Gives back some maiden melody,
Too pure for aught so mute.
The fairy-peopled world of flowers, [10]
Enraptured by thy spell,
Looks love unto the laughing hours,
Through woodland, grove, and dell;
And soft thy footstep falls upon
The verdant grass it weaves; [15]
To melting murmurs ye have stirred
The timid, trembling leaves.
When sunshine beautifies the shower,
As smiles through teardrops seen,
Ask of its June, the long-hushed heart, [20]
What hath the record been?
And thou wilt find that harmonies,
In which the Soul hath part,
Ne'er perish young, like things of earth,
In records of the heart. [25]