ROSE-MANTLED June! Where ever art thou fled?
Scarce did I know my happiness begun.
Where from the rustling harvest art thou sped
With trailing garments — woven of the sun,
With fair, sun-woven garments, set with gems
Which Morning's jeweled hand shakes from the skies
When gathering in the stars — whose matchless hems
The earth hath broidered, lavishing the dyes
Plucked from her patient heart. What did she spare
That beauty craved, to deck thee brave and fair!
By day, by night, in rain and shine,
With loving care she wrought
With blade and bloom, with branch and vine —
No smallest leaf forgot:
The clover, nestling in the field,
And in the margin narrow,
The elders' white, up-lifted shield,
The love-vine and the yarrow;
With dark, soft-waving hemp that heaves
In many a noiseless billow —
A background for the shimmering leaves
Upon the plume-like willow;
The locust trees, set like a frieze
Against the oat-fields gray;
The iris bending in the breeze
Along the dappled brae;
The flashing corn in glittering bars,
Glimpsed through the shadowy glade,
And countless daisies set like stars
Within the cedars' shade;
With streams through emerald stretches led,
Like silver music flowing,
And twisted vines swung overhead
With scarlet trumpets blowing;
O mockery! mockery! — vain — all is but vain —
The foolish numbers, the soon baffled art;
The rushing flood of beauty drowns the strain
And beats like sadness on the aching heart!
O royal mistress of the green-girt year,
For what dost thou forsake this goodly land?
What did'st thou lack to keep thee lingering here
With ever-blooming roses in thy hand?
Thy late-reaped wheat stands still afield and shows
Like little tents close-dotting all the ground,
Through which the Wind turns sighing as he goes
Still seeking if thy footprints might be found.
Ah me! so fair the happy fields — so sweet —
Me-seems it somewhere thou art biding still!
Is yon the glint of thy gold-sandaled feet,
Or but the sunshine breaking past the hill?
Nay! why should fancy cheat the sorrowing soul?
Saw I not well the great cloud-spirit's form?
Which came when Morning smote yon upland knoll,
And swept close by this woodland like a storm?
And thou, down-bending in this flowering lea,
Didst set the dew, with thy soft finger-tips,
On each up-looking blossom, and set free
Each waiting bud with touches of thy lips,
So that fierce spirit, glancing through his cloud,
Beheld thee here, and swerving in his flight,
Skimmed yon wide plain, wrapped in his shining shroud,
Himself and his intent close hid from sight.
Half do I think thy heart informed thee true
Of that bright sun-god's coming, for I traced
Thy thoughts' swift gleaming in the sparkling blue
Of thy side-glancing eyes, and saw thy chaste
Heart-conscious wish in thy cheeks' deepening hue.
Albeit, the glorious spirit swiftly flew
Along yon bank with woodland shadows laced,
And quick one mighty, shining arm he threw
Beneath thy breasts, round thy rose-cinctured waist,
And, lifting thee, sheer from the earth, he drew
Thee up within the gleaming cloud, and placed,
His eager lips to thine. And, thus embraced,
Thy half-veiled beauty vanished ere I knew;
Far from the shadowed earth, and from my view,
While field and woodland sighed, " Adieu! adieu! "
June! vanished June! — a summer sadness falls
On these wide, glimmering fields — I know not why
More plaintive sounds the lark's voice, now he calls
From out the stubble; slow the days go by,
And silence hangs upon the forest-walls
Like mournful drapery. The dragon-fly
Darts by the filmy brook, which slowly crawls
Its thirsting course amidst the grasses dry;
Some listless spirit now the world enthralls,
Drowsing content beneath the sultry sky.
O dear, departed June! thy withering flowers
Despairing call thy name; strange, wild regret
Comes with the whispering air; and in thy bowers
Mad Memory, crooning softly, fancies yet,
When some cloud-shadow seems to halt near by,
Thou art returned — but so — alas, not I!
Scarce did I know my happiness begun.
Where from the rustling harvest art thou sped
With trailing garments — woven of the sun,
With fair, sun-woven garments, set with gems
Which Morning's jeweled hand shakes from the skies
When gathering in the stars — whose matchless hems
The earth hath broidered, lavishing the dyes
Plucked from her patient heart. What did she spare
That beauty craved, to deck thee brave and fair!
By day, by night, in rain and shine,
With loving care she wrought
With blade and bloom, with branch and vine —
No smallest leaf forgot:
The clover, nestling in the field,
And in the margin narrow,
The elders' white, up-lifted shield,
The love-vine and the yarrow;
With dark, soft-waving hemp that heaves
In many a noiseless billow —
A background for the shimmering leaves
Upon the plume-like willow;
The locust trees, set like a frieze
Against the oat-fields gray;
The iris bending in the breeze
Along the dappled brae;
The flashing corn in glittering bars,
Glimpsed through the shadowy glade,
And countless daisies set like stars
Within the cedars' shade;
With streams through emerald stretches led,
Like silver music flowing,
And twisted vines swung overhead
With scarlet trumpets blowing;
O mockery! mockery! — vain — all is but vain —
The foolish numbers, the soon baffled art;
The rushing flood of beauty drowns the strain
And beats like sadness on the aching heart!
O royal mistress of the green-girt year,
For what dost thou forsake this goodly land?
What did'st thou lack to keep thee lingering here
With ever-blooming roses in thy hand?
Thy late-reaped wheat stands still afield and shows
Like little tents close-dotting all the ground,
Through which the Wind turns sighing as he goes
Still seeking if thy footprints might be found.
Ah me! so fair the happy fields — so sweet —
Me-seems it somewhere thou art biding still!
Is yon the glint of thy gold-sandaled feet,
Or but the sunshine breaking past the hill?
Nay! why should fancy cheat the sorrowing soul?
Saw I not well the great cloud-spirit's form?
Which came when Morning smote yon upland knoll,
And swept close by this woodland like a storm?
And thou, down-bending in this flowering lea,
Didst set the dew, with thy soft finger-tips,
On each up-looking blossom, and set free
Each waiting bud with touches of thy lips,
So that fierce spirit, glancing through his cloud,
Beheld thee here, and swerving in his flight,
Skimmed yon wide plain, wrapped in his shining shroud,
Himself and his intent close hid from sight.
Half do I think thy heart informed thee true
Of that bright sun-god's coming, for I traced
Thy thoughts' swift gleaming in the sparkling blue
Of thy side-glancing eyes, and saw thy chaste
Heart-conscious wish in thy cheeks' deepening hue.
Albeit, the glorious spirit swiftly flew
Along yon bank with woodland shadows laced,
And quick one mighty, shining arm he threw
Beneath thy breasts, round thy rose-cinctured waist,
And, lifting thee, sheer from the earth, he drew
Thee up within the gleaming cloud, and placed,
His eager lips to thine. And, thus embraced,
Thy half-veiled beauty vanished ere I knew;
Far from the shadowed earth, and from my view,
While field and woodland sighed, " Adieu! adieu! "
June! vanished June! — a summer sadness falls
On these wide, glimmering fields — I know not why
More plaintive sounds the lark's voice, now he calls
From out the stubble; slow the days go by,
And silence hangs upon the forest-walls
Like mournful drapery. The dragon-fly
Darts by the filmy brook, which slowly crawls
Its thirsting course amidst the grasses dry;
Some listless spirit now the world enthralls,
Drowsing content beneath the sultry sky.
O dear, departed June! thy withering flowers
Despairing call thy name; strange, wild regret
Comes with the whispering air; and in thy bowers
Mad Memory, crooning softly, fancies yet,
When some cloud-shadow seems to halt near by,
Thou art returned — but so — alas, not I!