June by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June!

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

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 grasses 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 let’s 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 next—

In the nice ear of nature, which song is best?

James Russell Lowell 1819-1891

American poet, critic, diplomat