172 JUNE. 



The white owl with his downy wings 

 And hooded head goes slowly by ; 



The hawk-moth sits upon the flowers ; 



And through the silent evening hours 

 The little brooks make melody. 



And walking 'mid the folded blooms 

 At summer midnight shalt thou feel 



A softened heart, a will subdued, 



A holy sense of gratitude, 



An influence from the Source of Good, 

 Thy bitterest griefs to heal. 



