 | [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson |  |
426
THE HEART OF JUNE.
Down in the heart of the June, my love,
Down in the heart of the June;
The gold sun singeth, “speed not away,”
The fair sky sigheth, “delay—delay,”—
And the green, green earth doth whisper “stay,”
In the heart of the red red June.
Down in the heart of the June;
The gold sun singeth, “speed not away,”
The fair sky sigheth, “delay—delay,”—
And the green, green earth doth whisper “stay,”
In the heart of the red red June.
This is the best of the world, my love,
This is the best of the year;
Behind is the springtime, cold and sweet,
Forward the summer's feverish heat;
Stay, then, my darling, thy hurrying feet,
For the best of our life is here.
This is the best of the year;
Behind is the springtime, cold and sweet,
Forward the summer's feverish heat;
Stay, then, my darling, thy hurrying feet,
For the best of our life is here.
Sip the red wine of the June, my love,
Sip the red wine of the June,
In May it was white as the fading snow,
August's deep purple will darken its glow;
Then, with lingering lip and kisses slow,
Sip the red, red wine of the June.
Sip the red wine of the June,
In May it was white as the fading snow,
August's deep purple will darken its glow;
Then, with lingering lip and kisses slow,
Sip the red, red wine of the June.
The roses, June roses, are red, my love,
They hang from your lattice high.
Faint was the May-blossom's gentle breath—
The orange-flower will be strong unto death;
But the rose is sweet, and its sweetness saith,
“There are none so lovely as I.”
They hang from your lattice high.
Faint was the May-blossom's gentle breath—
The orange-flower will be strong unto death;
But the rose is sweet, and its sweetness saith,
“There are none so lovely as I.”
Then live in the heart of this June, my love,
Live in the heart of this June.
Once we were friends—oh, cold, barren dearth!
Soon must our wedded life prove its own worth;
But now we are lovers—are gods on earth;
In the heart of this red, red June.
Live in the heart of this June.
Once we were friends—oh, cold, barren dearth!
Soon must our wedded life prove its own worth;
But now we are lovers—are gods on earth;
In the heart of this red, red June.
Constance Fenimore Woolson.
| [Poems by Woolson in] Constance Fenimore Woolson | |