But June, sweet June, all hail!
A SONG OF THOUGHT
O, the ships have sails for the swelling gales,
The falcon flies in the wake of the wind,
In the speed of the steed of the Bedouin breed
The blood leaps high to the hoof-beats’ lead,
As the leagues are left behind.
But what care I
For the birds that fly,
Or all the vessels that sail the sea;