Stands, round and firm, a deeper-tinted gem.
Rich summer faileth, and true-hearted June,
For whom birds sang, and perfect blessedness
Filled every grass-blade with a sense of bliss,
Tells o’er her beads for one to die so soon.
Her rosary strung around the rose-crowned shore,
Our pure June gladness, gathered into prayers,
The sweet-bay’s incense ever upward bears,
While we, 'mid loss, seem richer than before!