'TWAS JUNE, NOT I.
"Come out into the garden, Maud;"
In whispered tones young Percy said:
He but repeated what he'd read
That afternoon, with soft applaud:
A snatch, which for my same name's sake,
He caught, out of the sweet, soft song,
A lover for his love did make,
In half despite of some fond wrong:—
And more he quoted, just to show
How still the rhymes ran in his head,
With visions of the roses red
That on the poet's pen did grow.
The poet's spell was on our blood;
The spell of June was in the air;
We felt, more than we understood,
The charm of being young and fair.
Where everything is fair and young—
As on June eves doth fitly seem:
The Earth herself lies in among
The misty, azure fields of space,
A bride, whose startled blushes glow
Less flame-like through the shrouds of lace
That sweeter all her beauties show.
We walked and talked beneath the trees—
Bird-haunted, flowering trees of June—
The roses purpled in the moon;
We breathed their fragrance on the breeze—
Young Percy's voice is tuned to clear
Deep tones, as if his heart were deep:
This night it fluttered on my ear
As young birds flutter in their sleep.
