Wind of June, that sweep’st the rolling meadow,
Thou shalt wail in branches rough and bare,
While the tree, o’erhung with storm and shadow,
Writhes and creaks amid the gusty air.
All his leaves, like shields of fairies scattered,
Then shall drop before the Northwind’s spears,
And his limbs, by hail and tempest battered,
Feel the weight of wintry years.
Yet, why cloud the rapture and the glory
Of the Beautiful, that still remains?