The ferny places gleam at morn, The dew drips off the leaves of corn; Along the brook a mist of white Fades as a kiss on lips of light; For, lo! the poet with his pipe Finds all these melodies are ripe!
Far up within the cadenced June Floats, silver-winged, a living tune That winds within the morning's chime And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; For, lo! the poet, absent long, Breathes the first raptures of his song!
Across the clover-blossoms, wet, With dainty clumps of violet, And wild red roses in her hair, There comes a little maiden fair.
I cannot more of June rehearse -- She is the ending of my verse.
Ah, nay! For through perpetual days Of summer gold and filmy haze, When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, I yet will see those dew-washed feet, And o'er the tracts of Life and Time They make the cadence for my rhyme.
End of title
Sign in to unlock this title
Sign in to continue reading, it's free! As an unregistered user you can only read a little bit.
