THAT rare June eve, with crescent moon Low hung upon the West; Shy glint of stars and stir of leaves And chirp from air-swung nest; With balmy odors, dew-distilled, Afloat upon the breeze; Soft hum of insects, lapse of waves And whispering of trees,—
Thrills through my life a tender pain Like some sweet, broken vow; A jewel, golden to the eye, But heavy on the brow. The Summer-mother, whose young heart Throbbed rapture at its birth, With drooping head and trailing wings Passed sadly from the earth;
And later Summers, fair and sweet, With tropic-scented breath, Have nestled in the arms of Earth And sung themselves to death; But all have lacked the glowing warmth, The sensitive perfume, That filled the air and thrilled my soul One eve in that dead June.
