WHEN JUNE IS HERE.

When June is here — what art have we to sing

The whiteness of the lilies midst the green

Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen

Like redbirds’ wings? Or earliest ripening

Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling

Round winey juices oozing down between

The peckings of the robin, while we lean

In under-grasses, lost in marveling.

Or the cool term of morning, and the stir

Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks,

The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir

Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks

Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks

The dewdrops’ glint in webs of gossamer.