WHEN THE POET CAME.

The ferny places gleam at morn,

The dew drips off the leaves of corn;

Along the brook a mist of white

Fades as a kiss on lips of light;

For, lo! the poet with his pipe

Finds all these melodies are ripe!

Far up within the cadenced June

Floats, silver-winged, a living tune

That winds within the morning's chime

And sets the earth and sky to rhyme;

For, lo! the poet, absent long,

Breathes the first raptures of his song!

Across the clover-blossoms, wet,

With dainty clumps of violet,

And wild red roses in her hair,

There comes a little maiden fair.

I cannot more of June rehearse —

She is the ending of my verse.

Ah, nay! For through perpetual days

Of summer gold and filmy haze,

When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet,

I yet will see those dew-washed feet,

And o'er the tracts of Life and Time

They make the cadence for my rhyme.