The thrushes at the forest's hem;
And as I went I sang with them.
JUNE
LONG, long ago, it seems, this summer morn,
That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread
Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed
Woke the arbutus with her silver horn;
And now May, too, is fled,
The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,