And what is so rare as a day in June? — June

"So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see; So blithe and gay the humming-bird a-going From flower to flower, a-hunting with the bee."

"Purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it. Willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset-cloud was not slow to follow. Comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string music has announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that June at last was here."

"What joy have I in Junes return? My feet are parched—my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging Zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me "dust to dust."

"I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a joyous sound, The sextons hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain-turf should break."

"Do you recall that night in June Upon the Danube River; We listened to the ländler-tune, We watched the moonbeams quiver."

"June falls asleep upon her bier of flowers; In vain are dewdrops sprinkled oer her, In vain would fond winds fan her back to life, Her hours are numbered on the floral dial."