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June Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Tent of Noon by Bliss Carman
  2. June's Coming by John Burroughs
  3. Why Was June Made? by Annette Wynne
  4. June by William Cullen Bryant
  5. A New England June by Bliss Carman
  6. A Night in June by Madison Cawein
  7. June by James Russell Lowell
  8. The Breezes of June by Paul Hamilton Hayne
  9. June by Rebecca Hey
  10. A Song of the Sixth Month by William Stanley Braithwaite
  11. The Approach Of June, Or The Month Of Roses by Eliza Wolcott
  12. But One by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
  13. June by Thomas Wentworth Higginson
  14. June by Lottie Brown Allen
  15. The Passing June by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse
  16. Southwestern June by Charles Badger Clark
  17. June by Ada A. Mosher
  18. June in Maine by Hannah Augusta Moore

  1. The Tent of Noon

    by Bliss Carman

    Behold, now, where the pageant of high June
    Halts in the glowing noon!
    The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill;
    The bannered hosts are still,
    While over forest crown and mountain head
    The azure tent is spread.

    The song is hushed in every woodland throat;
    Moveless the lilies float;
    Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea
    Sighs only fitfully;
    The cattle drowse in the field-corner's shade;
    Peace on the world is laid.

    It is the hour when Nature's caravan,
    That bears the pilgrim Man
    Across the desert of uncharted time
    To his far hope sublime,
    Rests in the green oasis of the year,
    As if the end drew near.

    Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise
    For these fleet halcyon days?—
    No courage to uplift thee from despair
    Born with the breath of prayer?
    Then turn thee to the lilied field once more!
    God stands in his tent door.

  2. June's Coming

    by John Burroughs

    Now have come the shining days
    When field and wood are robed anew,
    And o'er the world a silver haze
    Mingles the emerald with the blue.

    Summer now doth clothe the land
    In garments free from spot or stain—
    The lustrous leaves, the hills untanned,
    The vivid meads, the glaucous grain.

    The day looks new, a coin unworn,
    Freshly stamped in heavenly mint;
    The sky keeps on its look of morn;
    Of age and death there is no hint.

    How soft the landscape near and far!
    A shining veil the trees infold;
    The day remembers moon and star;
    A silver lining hath its gold.

    Again I see the clover bloom,
    And wade in grasses lush and sweet;
    Again has vanished all my gloom
    With daisies smiling at my feet.

    Again from out the garden hives
    The exodus of frenzied bees;
    The humming cyclone onward drives,
    Or finds repose amid the trees.

    At dawn the river seems a shade—
    A liquid shadow deep as space;
    But when the sun the mist has laid,
    A diamond shower smites its face.

    The season's tide now nears its height,
    And gives to earth an aspect new;
    Now every shoal is hid from sight,
    With current fresh as morning dew.

  3. Why Was June Made?

    by Annette Wynne

    Why was June made?—Can you guess?
    June was made for happiness!
    Even the trees
    Know this, and the breeze
    That loves to play
    Outside all day,
    And never is too bold or rough,
    Like March's wind, but just a tiny blow's enough;
    And all the fields know
    This is so—
    June was not made for wind and stress,
    June was made for happiness;
    Little happy daisy faces
    Show it in the meadow places,
    And they call out when I pass,
    "Stay and play here in the grass."
    June was made for happy things,
    Boats and flowers, stars and wings,
    Not for wind and stress,
    June was made for happiness!

  4. June

    by William Cullen Bryant

    I gazed upon the glorious sky
    And the green mountains round;
    And thought, that when I came to lie
    Within the silent ground,
    'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
    When brooks sent up a cheerful tune,
    And groves a joyous sound,
    The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
    The rich, green mountain turf should break.

    A cell within the frozen mould,
    A coffin borne through sleet,
    And icy clods above it rolled,
    While fierce the tempests beat—
    Away!—I will not think of these—
    Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
    Earth green beneath the feet,
    And be the damp mould gently pressed
    Into my narrow place of rest.

    There, through the long, long summer hours,
    The golden light should lie,
    And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
    Stand in their beauty by.
    The oriole should build and tell
    His love-tale, close beside my cell;
    The idle butterfly
    Should rest him there, and there be heard
    The housewife-bee and humming-bird.

    And what if cheerful shouts, at noon,
    Come from the village sent,
    Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
    With fairy laughter blent?
    And what if, in the evening light,
    Betrothed lovers walk in sight
    Of my low monument?
    I would the lovely scene around
    Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

    I know, I know I should not see
    The season's glorious show,
    Nor would its brightness shine for me,
    Nor its wild music flow;
    But if, around my place of sleep,
    The friends I love should come to weep,
    They might not haste to go.
    Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,
    Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

    These to their softened hearts should bear
    The thought of what has been,
    And speak of one who cannot share
    The gladness of the scene;
    Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
    The circuit of the summer hills,
    Is—that his grave is green;
    And deeply would their hearts rejoice
    To hear, again, his living voice.

  5. A New England June

    by Bliss Carman

    These things I remember
    Of New England June,
    Like a vivid day-dream
    In the azure noon,
    While one haunting figure
    Strays through every scene,
    Like the soul of beauty
    Through her lost demesne.

    Gardens full of roses
    And peonies a-blow
    In the dewy morning,
    Row on stately row,
    Spreading their gay patterns,
    Crimson, pied and cream,
    Like some gorgeous fresco
    Or an Eastern dream.

    Nets of waving sunlight
    Falling through the trees;
    Fields of gold-white daisies
    Rippling in the breeze:
    Lazy lifting groundswells,
    Breaking green as jade
    On the lilac beaches,
    Where the shore-birds wade.

    Orchards full of blossom,
    Where the bob-white calls
    And the honeysuckle
    Climbs the old gray walls;
    Groves of silver birches,
    Beds of roadside fern,
    In the stone-fenced pasture
    At the river's turn.

    Out of every picture
    Still she comes to me
    With the morning freshness
    Of the summer sea, —
    A glory in her bearing,
    A sea-light in her eyes,
    As if she could not forget
    The spell of Paradise.

    Thrushes in the deep woods,
    With their golden themes,
    Fluting like the choirs
    At the birth of dreams.
    Fireflies in the meadows
    At the gate of Night,
    With their fairy lanterns
    Twinkling soft and bright.

    Ah, not in the roses,
    Nor the azure noon,
    Nor the thrushes' music,
    Lies the soul of June.
    It is something finer,
    More unfading far,
    Than the primrose evening
    And the silver star;

    Something of the rapture
    My beloved had,
    When she made the morning
    Radiant and glad,—
    Something of her gracious
    Ecstasy of mien,
    That still haunts the twilight,
    Loving though unseen.

    When the ghostly moonlight
    Walks my garden ground,
    Like a leisurely patrol
    On his nightly round,
    These things I remember
    Of the long ago,
    While the slumbrous roses
    Neither care nor know.

  6. A Night in June

    by Madison Cawein

    I
    White as a lily moulded of Earth's milk
    That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;
    Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,
    Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:
    Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade
    The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;
    Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,
    Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.
    And when the western sky seemed some weird land,
    And night a witching spell at whose command
    One sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deep
    The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;
    Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,
    And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.

    II
    There where they part, the porch's steps are strewn
    With wind-blown petals of the purple vine;
    Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine
    Cleaves the white moonlight; and like some calm rune
    Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;
    And now a meteor draws a lilac line
    Across the welkin, as if God would sign
    The perfect poem of this night of June.
    The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,
    Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass
    Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;
    And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,
    The dewdrop trembles on the peony,
    As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.

  7. June

    by James Russell Lowell

    What 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 over 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, groping 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 nor a blade too mean
    To be some happy creature's palace;
    The little bird sits at his 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;
    His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
    And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
    He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,—
    In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

  8. The Breezes of June

    by Paul Hamilton Hayne

    On! sweet and soft,
    Returning oft,
    As oft they pass benignly,
    The warm June breezes come and go,
    Through golden rounds of murmurous flow,
    At length to sigh,
    Wax faint and die,
    Far down the panting primrose sky,
    Divinely!

    Though soft and low
    These breezes blow,
    Their voice is passion's wholly;
    And ah! our hearts go forth to meet
    The burden of their music sweet,
    Ere yet it sighs,
    Faints, falters, dies
    Down the rich path of sunset skies—
    Half glad, half melancholy!

    Bend, bend thine ear!
    Oh! hark and hear
    What vows each blithe new-comer!
    Each warm June breeze that comes goes,
    Is whispering to the royal rose,
    And star-pale lily, trembling nigh,
    Ere yet in subtlest harmony
    Its murmurs die,
    Wax faint and die
    On thy flushed bosom, passionate sky,
    Of youthful summer!

  9. June

    by Rebecca Hey

    This is the year's sweet prime! Methinks, like Youth,
    'Tis poetry embodied! Nay, I deem,
    Delightsome June! that Fancy's brightest dream
    Outvies not thy fair beauty; nay in sooth,
    For once she need but borrow hues from Truth
    To picture thee. Now yield we every sense
    To the sweet season's genial influence,
    And banish from our bosoms care and ruth.
    Ask we for fragrance? lo! each little flower
    Yields to our scarce-breathed wish its incense sweet;
    For music? hie we to the glade and bower,
    There the blithe birds shall give us welcome meet;
    For beauty? deck'd in all its living power,
    Earth lays her brightest trophies at our feet.

  10. A Song of the Sixth Month

    by William Stanley Braithwaite

    Glad, mad, and a bit sad too —
    Face o' the rose in the eye of the sun;
    God has dreamed and his work is done —
    June's on the world, heigh-ho!

    See how the greenish shadow raises
    Patterns on the sun's flood of golden blazes
    Round a pink, slim girl knee-deep in daisies.

    What is this slow full sense of Time!
    This great armada of chirp and song,
    That are as a host of sails that throng
    Across June's tidal sea of rhyme.

    Buttercups and daisies, sing low, sing high —
    Age is a fable, death is a lie —
    And June's too good to tell us why!

  11. The Approach Of June, Or The Month Of Roses

    by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

    'Tis blushing on through brier and thorn,
    The wintry winds are still;
    Now softer zephyrs waft along,
    The month of June to fill.

    Soft dews descend upon the flowers
    And kindly rest awhile;
    'Tis sweet to wait upon these hours,
    To see the roses smile.

    How beautiful the charming scene,
    'Tis far surpassing art,
    Like purity in heavenly mien,
    Reviving to the heart.

    Sweet exhalations fill the air,
    While music in the grove,
    Invites my pensive soul to share
    In all the songs of love.

    Put off thy wintry robe my soul,
    Born to rejoice and sing,
    Let gratitude thy lips control
    In praises to your king.

    The soul with innocence possess'd,
    Her incense safe may bear
    To Christ, whose righteousness hath bless'd
    The humblest form of prayer.

    Thus while the roses greet our eyes,
    In all their rich perfume,
    Should our prayers like incense rise,
    Our summer to illume.

  12. But One

    by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

    The year has but one June, dear friend,
    The year has but one June;
    And when that perfect month doth end,
    The robin's song, though loud, though long,
    Seems never quite in tune.

    The rose, though still its blushing face
    By bee and bird is seen,
    May yet have lost that subtle grace—
    That nameless spell the winds know well—
    Which makes its gardens queen.

    Life's perfect June, love's red, red rose,
    Have burned and bloomed for me.
    Though still youth's summer sunlight glows;
    Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find
    I have no heart for thee.

  13. June

    by Thomas Wentworth Higginson

    She needs no teaching,—no defect is hers;
    She stands in all her beauty 'mid the trees,
    'Neath the tall pines her golden sunshine stirs
    And shifts and trembles with each passing breeze.
    All the long day upon the broad green boughs
    Lieth the lustre of her lovely life,
    While too much drugged with rapture to carouse
    Broods her soft world of insect-being rife.
    So without effort or perplexing thought
    She comes to claim all homage as her own,
    Clad in the richest garments Nature wrought,
    Melting the strongest with her magic zone.
    O wondrous June! our lives should be like thee,
    With such calm grace fulfilling destiny.

  14. June

    by Lottie Brown Allen

    Oh what is more sweet than the month of June
    When our senses thrill and our hearts keep tune
    To the song of the birds and the rose in bloom?

    Oh what is more joy than the early gray
    Of the dewy morn and the sun’s first ray
    That herald the dawn of a perfect day?

    Oh what is more fair as the sun climbs high
    Than the azure hue of the summer sky
    And the snow-white clouds drifting idly by?

    Oh what is more pure than the summer air
    That wafts from the woodlands and gardens fair
    A fragrance and perfume so rich and rare?

    Oh what is more dear than the twilight hour
    When the daylight fades and each nodding flower
    Is kissed by the moonbeams’ mystic power?

    O, Summer Queen! you are gone too soon
    With your sunny days and your shining moon,
    With your golden grain and your wealth of bloom.

    And if we could hold in some magic way
    To your trailing robes for a single day,
    Dear month of June, we would bid you stay.

  15. The Passing June

    by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

    I am shut in as June goes by,
    And can but see one little tree
    Tossing its new leaves to the sky
    With the old ecstasy.

    And of the sky itself I see
    Only a curving arc of blue,
    That brings the larkspur dawn to me
    And holds the evening true.

    I am shut in as June goes by,
    But every day you come to me,
    And I am glad to lose the sky
    And every dancing tree.

  16. Southwestern June

    by Charles Badger Clark

    Lazy little hawse, it's noon
    And we've wasted saddle leather,
    But the mornin's slip so soon
    When we drift around together
    In this lazy, shinin' weather,
    Sunny, easy-goin' June.

    Who kin study shamblin' herds,
    How they calve or die or wander,
    When the bridegroom mockin'-birds,
    Singin' here and there and yonder,
    Trill that June's too bright to ponder
    And life's just too fine for words!

    Down the desert's hazy blue
    See the tall gray whirlwinds farin',
    Slow, contented sort of crew
    Trailin' 'cross the sunny barren,
    Headed nowhere and not carin'
    Just the same as me and you.

    From a world of unfenced room
    Just a breath of breeze is strayin',
    Triflin' with the yucca bloom
    Till its waxy bells are swayin',
    On my cheek warm kisses layin'
    Soft as touch of ostrich plume.

    When the July lightnin' gleams
    This brown range will start to workin',
    Hills be green and tricklin' streams
    Down each deep arroyo lurkin';
    Now the sleepy land is shirkin',
    Drowzin', smilin' in her dreams.

    Steppin' little hawse, it's noon.
    Turquoise blue the far hills glimmer;
    "Sun—sun—sun," the mockers croon
    Where the yellow range lands shimmer,
    And our sparklin' spirits simmer
    For we're young yet, and it's June!

  17. June

    by Ada A. Mosher

    Ah, transient fall as tender were the flowers
    You flung within the lap of this old clime,
    And fair as fleeting were thy sweet-faced hours,
    The children beautiful you bore old Time.

  18. June in Maine

    by Hannah Augusta Moore

    Beautiful, beautiful summer!
    Odorous, exquisite June!
    All the sweet roses in blossom,
    All the sweet birdies in tune.

    Dew on the meadows at sunset;
    Gems on the meadows at morn;
    Melody hushing the evening;
    Melody greeting the dawn.

    All the dim aisles of the forest
    Ringing and thrilling with song;
    Music—a flood-tide of music—
    Poured the green valleys along.

    Rapturous creatures of beauty.
    Winging their way through the sky,
    Heavenward warble their praises—
    Mount our thanksgivings as high?

    Lo! when a bird is delighted,
    His ecstacy prompts him to soar;
    The greater, the fuller his rapture,
    His songs of thanksgiving the more.

    See how the winds from the mountains
    Sweep over meadows most fair;
    The green fields are tossed like the ocean,
    Are shadowed by clouds in the air.

    For now fleecy shadows are chasing
    The sunshine from woodland and vale,
    As white clouds come gathering slowly,
    Blown up by the sweet-scented gale

    Birds and the gales and the flowers
    Call us from study away,
    Out to the fields where the mowers
    Soon will be making the hay.

    Buttercups, daisies, and clover,
    Roses, sweet-briar, and fern,
    Mingle their breath on the breezes—
    Who from such wooing could turn?

    Out! to the heath and the mountain,
    Where mid the fern and the brake,
    Under the pines and the spruces,
    Fragrant the bower we will make.

    Ravishing voices of Nature,
    Ye conquer—and never too soon—
    We yield to thy luscious embraces,
    Thou odorous, exquisite June!