June 1915

Who thinks of June’s first rose today?

Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes and

                rough bright hair will reach it down.

In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far away

As are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town.

What’s  little June to a great broken world with eyes gone dim

From too much looking on the face of grief, the face of dread?

Or what’s the broken word to June and him

Of the small eager hand, the shining eyes, the rough bright head?