An April Rhyme Of June.
Pass o'er uplands brown and bare;
Violets sleep in the sleeping meadow,
Wings are still in the silent air;
June, O June, art thou anywhere?
Sun and shower, sun and shower,
Last year's nests in the voiceless trees,
Furrowed fields under skies that lower,
Roadsides barren of bloom and bees__
June, O June, art thou born of these?
Yet the presence of some new-comer
Thrills us, a prescience of things to be;
After rain come the scents of summer;
Silence even is prophecy.
June, O June, does it tell of thee?
Lay your ear to the earth and listen!
Hark! the hum of the hosts of spring;
Southward dimly their banners glisten,
Nights the smoke of their camp-fires
June, thy soul is in everything!
___Arthur Graves Canfield