I.

June was not over

Though past the fall,

And the best of her roses

Had yet to blow,

When a man I know

(But shall not discover,

Since ears are dull,

And time discloses) Turned him and said with a man’s true air, Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as ’twere,- "If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?"

II.

Well, dear, in-doors with you!

True! serene deadness

Tries a man’s temper.

What’s in the blossom

June wears on her bosom?

Can it clear scores with you?

Sweetness and redness.

Eadem semper! Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly! If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightly By plucking the roses,- my June will do rightly.

III.

And after, for pastime,

If June be refulgent

With flowers in completeness,

All petals, no prickles,

Delicious as trickles

Of wine poured at mass-time,-

And choose One indulgent

To redness and sweetness: Or if, with experience of man and of spider, June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder, And stop the fresh film-work,- why, June will consider.