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MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS
June
| 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? |
| And thou wilt find that harmonies, |
| In which the Soul hath part, |
| Ne'er perish young, like things of earth, |
| In records of the heart. |
