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,