JUNE

Come walk a mile with me —‘ Tis June,— fair June-day,

And Nature smiles — her magic hands are still,

For not a ripple stirs yon lake at noon-day,

And not a breeze disturbs this woody hill;

But hark!— what idle dreamer there is drumming?

It is — it is a pheasant calling — “Come!”

And listen!— like a low voice sweetly humming

Is heard the brook within its forest home.

But wait!— We cannot wait —‘ Twill soon be Summer,

So let us now enjoy these days of June,

For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer,

Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune;

And see ye not yon oriole high swinging

His basket from that tall and leafy tree —

O Comrade, Comrade!— Time is swiftly winging,—

‘ Twill not be always June with you and me;

Spring-time is passing — Summer is a-coming,

And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams,

And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing

The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams!

O Comrade!— Comrade!— let us not be weary,

But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom,

Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary,

Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom!

For see!— each flower lifts a golden chalice

Inviting us to drink — Shall we pass by,

With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace

That June has rear'd us‘ neath a cloudless sky?