Whence are thy wooings, gentle June?
Thou hast a Naiad's charm;
Thy breezes scent the rose's breath;
Old Time gives thee his 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 footprint 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 Christ hath part,
Ne'er perish young, like things of earth,—
Are records of the heart.
