June was it, June, sweet mistress of the changing year,
(She of the brow serene, unpressed by cypress fear,
Nor darkened under bitter bud and leaf
By earth's old travail and the gray world's grief,—
Delighted by her changeful diadem
And fringed with roses round her mantle hem,)
Who laid thy hand in mine,
And said, with voice divine,
Like low-toned winds that wander to and fro
Searching out reedy pipes wherein to blow: