MORNING WALK IN JUNE.
THE fragrance of the fresh-mown hay
Perfumes the air around to-day;
Delicious odors rise;
The walnut, pine, and cedar trees,
Are waving gently in the breeze,
Beneath the bluest skies.
Perfumes the air around to-day;
Delicious odors rise;
The walnut, pine, and cedar trees,
Are waving gently in the breeze,
Beneath the bluest skies.
The buttercup and clover too,
Wild flowers of every shade and hue,
Seem more than ever fair;
And I, too, feel the mystic power
That spangles every leaf and flower,
That tinged them with such care.
Wild flowers of every shade and hue,
Seem more than ever fair;
And I, too, feel the mystic power
That spangles every leaf and flower,
That tinged them with such care.
The hill, that reigns a monarch here,
Where trees, and rocks, and shrubs appear,
And golden mosses grow,—
We clamber up its craggy side,
Forgetting all that may betide,
To gaze on scenes below.
Where trees, and rocks, and shrubs appear,
And golden mosses grow,—
We clamber up its craggy side,
Forgetting all that may betide,
To gaze on scenes below.
The vales with beauty, joy, abound,
With works of loveliness are crowned—
With works of loveliness are crowned—
