Slow through the light and silent air,

Up climbs the smoke on its spiral stair—

The visible flight of some mortal’s prayer;

The trees are in bloom with the flowers of frost,

But never a feathery leaf is lost;

The spring, descending, is caught and bound

Ere its silver feet can touch the ground;

So still is the air that lies, this morn,

Over the snow-cold fields forlorn,

’Tis as though Italy’s heaven smiled

In the face of some bleak Norwegian wild;

And the heart in me sings—I know not why—

’Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky!

June in the sky! Ah, now I can see

The souls of roses about to be,

In gardens of heaven beckoning me,

Roses red-lipped, and roses pale,

Fanned by the tremulous ether gale!

Some of them climbing a window-ledge,

Some of them peering from wayside hedge,

As yonder, adrift on the aery stream,

Love drives his plumed and filleted team;

The Angel of Summer aloft I see,

And the souls of roses about to be!

And the heart in me sings—the heart knows why—

’Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky.