June

Spring is my mother, summer is my sire,(So sayeth June).A vernal breath, a heart of hot desire;A dawn of cooling mist, a lucent noonOf azure fire;The latest violet, the earliest rose,The lilies blooming and no lily dead,A clearest light that deepest shadow throws,Each leaf now open and no leaf yet shed—By these ye know me, and the morning choirThat singeth May is past, July comes soon.Spring is my mother, summer is my sire,(So sayeth June).