The dew is in the daisy and the bird is in her nest,
And the lily, the white lily. is in bloom :
A honey-bee is rocking like a baby on her breast,
And the soft air is delicious with its freshness and perfume.
There's a humming in the clover, there's a rustle in the trees,
There's a laughter of the children on the lea;
For June is but a holiday to natures such as these,
The blameless and the pure of heart, the simple and the free.
The blue without a cloudlet is an opal of rich dye,
The earth a mighty emerald below;
And clouds, when any clouds are, make lovelier the sky,
Like a flock of sheep from washing, all moving white and slow.
A soft illusive purple is over the wide sea,
And where the sun has touched it is a dance,
As if a million Naiads, unseen of you and me,
Were dinting with their tiny feet the undulant expanse.
The very air exhilarates our senses and our soul,
We drink the true elixir at its spring;
The life that overmantles the jeweled sapphire bowl
Where the earth floats like a bubble within its beaded ring.
I have quaffed the breath of lilies, I have sipped the rose's wine,
And my nerves have caught the joyance of the dew;
All the birds have set my pulses to a melody as fine
As their own, and theirs articulates the tone of every hue.
Oh! the beauty of the morning in the redolence of June,
Is a draught to thrill and gladden all the blood;
To warm us to thanksgiving as it wakes the birds to tune,
Till dance our hearts as David danced before the ark of God.
The wine-cup of the Spoiler, has not a draught like this,
That thrills us without burning, without loss ;
Life leaps to nobler issues, as if a mother's kiss
Had strengthened us for action, to strive or bear the cross!
A June Morning