From UNDER THE WILLOWS. 



Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, 

 Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, 

 June is the pearl of our New England year. 

 Still a surprisal, though expected long, 

 Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait. 

 Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back. 

 Then, from some southern ambush in the sky, 

 With one great gush of blossom storms the world. 

 A week ago the sparrow was divine ; 

 The bluebird, shifting his light load of song 

 From post to post along the cheerless fence. 

 Was as a rhymer ere the poet come ; 

 But now, O rapture! sunshine winged and voiced, 

 Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the West 

 Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, 

 Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one, 

 The bobolink has come, and, like the soul 

 Of the sweet season vocal in a bird. 

 Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what, 

 Save June ! Dear June ! Now God be praised for yune. 



yantes Russell Lowell. 



