  Whence are thy wooings, gentle June? Thou hast a naiad's charm; Thy breezes scent the rose's breath; Old Time gives thee her palm. The lark's shrill song doth wake the dawn: The eve-bird's forest flute Gives back some maiden melody, Too pure for aught so mute. The fairy-peopled world of flowers, Enraptured by thy spell, Looks love unto the laughing hours, Through woodland, grove, and dell; And soft thy footstep falls upon The verdant grass it weaves; To melting murmurs ye have stirred The timid, trembling leaves. When sunshine beautifies the shower, As smiles through teardrops seen, Ask of its June, the long-hushed heart, What hath the record been? In which the Soul hath part, Ne'er perish young, like things of earth, In records of the heart. |
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