the death of june.
111
Or see her wild geraniums by the brook;
Her laurels and azalias in the woods.
These gather we as keepsakes of dear June,
Though not unmindful of the humbler flowers
That thought it joy to bloom around her feet;—
The buttercups and blue-eyed-grass that peeped
Under the wayside bars at travellers;
Prunella lingering in the wagon's track;
The evening primrose, glimmering like a star
When the sun set; and the prim mullein too,
Folded in flannels from the eastern winds,
Damp dews, and reckless songs of bob-o'-links.
Her laurels and azalias in the woods.
These gather we as keepsakes of dear June,
Though not unmindful of the humbler flowers
That thought it joy to bloom around her feet;—
The buttercups and blue-eyed-grass that peeped
Under the wayside bars at travellers;
Prunella lingering in the wagon's track;
The evening primrose, glimmering like a star
When the sun set; and the prim mullein too,
Folded in flannels from the eastern winds,
Damp dews, and reckless songs of bob-o'-links.
A warmer reign begins, and they must fade
Beneath its splendor; even these richer blooms,—
Orchis and Arethusa quaintly robed,
And harebells nodding to blue skies and streams,
And white pond-lilies, scarcely opening
In time to catch the farewell look of June:
But the midsummer air is balmy yet,
With the sweet, lingering breath of flowers that died,
And left their fragrance for a legacy
To weary dusty days they never saw.
Beneath its splendor; even these richer blooms,—
Orchis and Arethusa quaintly robed,
And harebells nodding to blue skies and streams,
And white pond-lilies, scarcely opening
In time to catch the farewell look of June:
But the midsummer air is balmy yet,
With the sweet, lingering breath of flowers that died,
And left their fragrance for a legacy
To weary dusty days they never saw.
