[JUNE IN THE SKY]
Slow through the light and silent air,
Up climbs the smoke on its spiral stair—
The visible flight of some mortal’s prayer;
The trees are in bloom with the flowers of frost,
But never a feathery leaf is lost;
The spring, descending, is caught and bound
Ere its silver feet can touch the ground;
So still is the air that lies, this morn,
Over the snow-cold fields forlorn,