When June Is Here.

When June is here—what art have we to sing The whiteness of the lilies midst the green Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling Round winey juices oozing down between The peckings of the robin, while we lean In under-grasses, lost in marveling. Or the cool term of morning, and the stir Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks, The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer.