June

Deep in the wood, secure from glare and noise,How sweet, serene, and grateful Nature seems,A couch of softest velvet moss she makes,Inviting one to reverie and dreams.

The boughs o'erhead wave gently to and fro,Each leafy twig a trembling, tiny fan,That, murmuring, in drowsy accents low,Stir old-world fancies of the days of Pan.

Far as the eye can reach are bosky depths,Mysterious and dark tunnels of living green;The changing flecks of sunshine, here and there,But serve to add enchantment to the scene.

A robin on yon branch trills forth,With head upraised, a joyous, blithesome song;So Siegfried listened to the magic birdAnd learned the secrets of the woodland tongue.

A dainty footstep rustles the dry leaves;I peer behind gnarled trunks to see the faun;But, strange, shy creature, hurried sounds,'Mid branch and bramble, tell me he has gone.

Now sweeps a wind-gust down the mountain-side,The woods are full of echoing, vibrant tones,Strange shadows flit among the dusky waysAnd hide behind the moss-grown logs and stones.

The insects chirp, the partridge drums,And shrill the song-bird carols forth his tune;Oh, where is Fancy bred! Whispers the wind,"Deep in the leafy wood, mayhap, in June."