 | Later Lays and Lyrics |  |
JUNE DYING.
I.
In crimson flakes on the garden mould,Are the fallen rose-leaves lying,
And the mystic wind, that harper old,
Through my ravaged bower is sighing
A low, sad tune,
For beautiful June
Is dying.
II.
The whistle clear of the mother quailTo the mead lark is replying,
And airy tongues in wood and dale,
Sweet, many-voiced are crying
“Too soon, too soon
Our beautiful June
Is dying.”
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III.
With saddened note o'er the faded lawnThe barn-swallow low is flying;
A youthful bloom from the land is gone,
For the “Strawberry Moon” is dying,
And the crickets croon
That beautiful June
Is dying.
IV.
Dry summer dust that veils its green,Through the village park is flying,
And cloudy forms on the wing are seen
To Beauty's death-bed hieing,
For that peerless boon
Of our Maker, June,
Is dying.
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