



A Bay in Fone. 
J. R. Lowell, 
HAT is so rare as a day in June ? 
Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
And o’er it softly her warm ear lays: 
Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 
An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, grasping blindly above it for light, 
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 
Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 


The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there’s never a leaf or a blade too mean 
To be some happy creature’s palace. 
The little bird sits at the door in the sun, 
Atilt, like a blossom, among the leaves, 
And lets his illumined being o’errun 
With the deluge of Summer it receives. 

