JUNE LONGINGS.

Lo, all about the lofty blue are blown

Light vapors white, like thistle-down,

That from their softened silver heaps opaque

Scatter delicate flake by flake,

Upon the wide loom of the heavens weaving

Forms of fancies past believing,

And, with fantastic show of mute despair,

As for some sweet hope hurt beyond repair,

Melt in the silent voids of sunny air.

All day the cooing brooklet runs in tune:

Half sunk i’ th’ blue, the powdery moon

Shows whitely. Hark, the bobolink's note! I hear it,

Far and faint as a fairy spirit!

Yet all these pass, and as some blithe bird, winging,

Leaves a heart-ache for his singing,

A frustrate passion haunts me evermore

For that which closest dwells to beauty's core.

O Love, canst thou this heart of hope restore?