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,