JUNE

Oh, I'm weary of the town,

Where life's too hard for smiling – and the dreary houses frown,

And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats

Upon the miles of dusty roofs – the dreary squares and streets;

This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's – the golden cross and dome,

Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?

Our little church is gray,

It stands upon a hill-side – you can see it miles away,

The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.

I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,

When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze, —

Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.

There are elm trees all around

Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,

And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,

And you hear the low of cattle – where the red farm buildings are;

Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,

And forget the cruel city – on this first blue day of June!

The grass is high – I know;

And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;

But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day —

It would only be to count my dead – whom God has taken away.

That graveyard where the daisies grow – not yet my heart can bear

To pass that way – but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!

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