JUNE

Now from remotest hiding-place Comes every fay, comes every flower’s soul. Lo by the brooks, how disks of moonlit lace Veil all the waters’ hidden, sleeping face: And from the summer’s long-forgotten store Is given lavish dole: June now doth scatter gold behind her and before. The daisy, like a cherubim’s countenance Shining, and girt with rayed and shining wings, And melilot, slender and yellow-haired, And light-hung grasses in their airy dance, And flowering reed that by the river sings, And buttercups, in web of light ensnared, And the chaste flower-de-luce so clear in hue, Stand all like thoughtful sprites upon the mead, Wondering at heaven, so smiling in their view; Nor to the autumn give they any heed. 1914.