JUNE

LONG, long ago, it seems, this summer morn,That pale-browed April passed with pensive treadThrough the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bedWoke the arbutus with her silver horn;And now May, too, is fled,The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet,Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gayWith tulips and the scented violet.Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue,And the sad drooping bellwort, and no moreThe snowy trilliums crowd the forest floor;The purpling grasses are no longer young,And summer's wide-set doorO'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earthLets in the torrent of the later bloom,Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume.All day in garden alleys moist and dim,The humid air is burdened with the rose;In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows;And now the vesper-sparrow's pealing hymnFrom every orchard closeAt eve comes flooding rich and silvery;The daisies in great meadows swing and shine;And with the wind a sound as of the seaRoars in the maples and the topmost pine.High in the hills the solitary thrushTunes magically his music of fine dreams,In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams;And wide and far on nebulous fields aflushThe mellow morning gleams.The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there,The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue,And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair,And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew.So with thronged voices and unhasting flightThe fervid hours with long return go by;The far-heard bugles, piping shrill and high,Tell the slow moments of the solemn nightWith unremitting cry;Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouthThe planets gleam; the baleful ScorpionTrails his dim fires along the drousëd south;The silent world-incrusted round moves on.And all the dim night long the moon's white beamsNestle deep down in every brooding tree,And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee,Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams,And carol brokenly.Dim surging motions and uneasy dreadsScare the light slumber from men's busy eyes,And parted lovers on their restless bedsToss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs.Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee,As dreamers of old time were wont to feign,In living form of flesh, and striven in vain;Yet when some sudden old-world mysteryOf passion fixed my brain,Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream,Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze,Or by some hollow of some reeded streamSitting waist-deep in white anemones;And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone,A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy,Yet in thy place for subtle thoughts employThe golden magic clung, a light that shoneAnd filled me with thy joy.Before me like a mist that streamed and fellAll names and shapes of antique beauty passedIn garlanded procession, with the swellOf flutes between the beechen stems; and, last,I was the Arcadian valley, the loved wood,Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore,And through the cool green glades, awake once more,Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued,Fleet-footed as of yore,The noonday ringing with her frighted peals,Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran,Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heelsThe hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan.

LONG, long ago, it seems, this summer morn,

That pale-browed April passed with pensive tread

Through the frore woods, and from its frost-bound bed

Woke the arbutus with her silver horn;

And now May, too, is fled,

The flower-crowned month, the merry laughing May,

With rosy feet and fingers dewy wet,

Leaving the woods and all cool gardens gay

With tulips and the scented violet.

Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue,And the sad drooping bellwort, and no moreThe snowy trilliums crowd the forest floor;The purpling grasses are no longer young,And summer's wide-set doorO'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earthLets in the torrent of the later bloom,Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume.

Gone are the wind-flower and the adder-tongue,

And the sad drooping bellwort, and no more

The snowy trilliums crowd the forest floor;

The purpling grasses are no longer young,

And summer's wide-set door

O'er the thronged hills and the broad panting earth

Lets in the torrent of the later bloom,

Haytime, and harvest, and the after mirth,

The slow soft rain, the rushing thunder plume.

All day in garden alleys moist and dim,The humid air is burdened with the rose;In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows;And now the vesper-sparrow's pealing hymnFrom every orchard closeAt eve comes flooding rich and silvery;The daisies in great meadows swing and shine;And with the wind a sound as of the seaRoars in the maples and the topmost pine.

All day in garden alleys moist and dim,

The humid air is burdened with the rose;

In moss-deep woods the creamy orchid blows;

And now the vesper-sparrow's pealing hymn

From every orchard close

At eve comes flooding rich and silvery;

The daisies in great meadows swing and shine;

And with the wind a sound as of the sea

Roars in the maples and the topmost pine.

High in the hills the solitary thrushTunes magically his music of fine dreams,In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams;And wide and far on nebulous fields aflushThe mellow morning gleams.The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there,The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue,And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair,And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew.

High in the hills the solitary thrush

Tunes magically his music of fine dreams,

In briary dells, by boulder-broken streams;

And wide and far on nebulous fields aflush

The mellow morning gleams.

The orange cone-flowers purple-bossed are there,

The meadow's bold-eyed gypsies deep of hue,

And slender hawkweed tall and softly fair,

And rosy tops of fleabane veiled with dew.

So with thronged voices and unhasting flightThe fervid hours with long return go by;The far-heard bugles, piping shrill and high,Tell the slow moments of the solemn nightWith unremitting cry;Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouthThe planets gleam; the baleful ScorpionTrails his dim fires along the drousëd south;The silent world-incrusted round moves on.

So with thronged voices and unhasting flight

The fervid hours with long return go by;

The far-heard bugles, piping shrill and high,

Tell the slow moments of the solemn night

With unremitting cry;

Lustrous and large out of the gathering drouth

The planets gleam; the baleful Scorpion

Trails his dim fires along the drousëd south;

The silent world-incrusted round moves on.

And all the dim night long the moon's white beamsNestle deep down in every brooding tree,And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee,Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams,And carol brokenly.Dim surging motions and uneasy dreadsScare the light slumber from men's busy eyes,And parted lovers on their restless bedsToss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs.

And all the dim night long the moon's white beams

Nestle deep down in every brooding tree,

And sleeping birds, touched with a silly glee,

Waken at midnight from their blissful dreams,

And carol brokenly.

Dim surging motions and uneasy dreads

Scare the light slumber from men's busy eyes,

And parted lovers on their restless beds

Toss and yearn out, and cannot sleep for sighs.

Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee,As dreamers of old time were wont to feign,In living form of flesh, and striven in vain;Yet when some sudden old-world mysteryOf passion fixed my brain,Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream,Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze,Or by some hollow of some reeded streamSitting waist-deep in white anemones;

Oft have I striven, sweet month, to figure thee,

As dreamers of old time were wont to feign,

In living form of flesh, and striven in vain;

Yet when some sudden old-world mystery

Of passion fixed my brain,

Thy shape hath flashed upon me like no dream,

Wandering with scented curls that heaped the breeze,

Or by some hollow of some reeded stream

Sitting waist-deep in white anemones;

And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone,A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy,Yet in thy place for subtle thoughts employThe golden magic clung, a light that shoneAnd filled me with thy joy.Before me like a mist that streamed and fellAll names and shapes of antique beauty passedIn garlanded procession, with the swellOf flutes between the beechen stems; and, last,

And even as I glimpsed thee thou wert gone,

A dream for mortal eyes too proudly coy,

Yet in thy place for subtle thoughts employ

The golden magic clung, a light that shone

And filled me with thy joy.

Before me like a mist that streamed and fell

All names and shapes of antique beauty passed

In garlanded procession, with the swell

Of flutes between the beechen stems; and, last,

I was the Arcadian valley, the loved wood,Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore,And through the cool green glades, awake once more,Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued,Fleet-footed as of yore,The noonday ringing with her frighted peals,Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran,Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heelsThe hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan.

I was the Arcadian valley, the loved wood,

Alpheus stream divine, the sighing shore,

And through the cool green glades, awake once more,

Psyche, the white-limbed goddess, still pursued,

Fleet-footed as of yore,

The noonday ringing with her frighted peals,

Down the bright sward and through the reeds she ran,

Urged by the mountain echoes, at her heels

The hot-blown cheeks and trampling feet of Pan.

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