Far up within the cadenced June
  Floats, silver-winged, a living tune
  That winds within the morning’s chime
  And sets the earth and sky to rhyme;
  For, lo! the poet, absent long,
  Breathes the first raptures of his song!

  Across the clover-blossoms, wet,
  With dainty clumps of violet,
  And wild red roses in her hair,
  There comes a little maiden fair. 
  I cannot more of June rehearse—­
  She is the ending of my verse.

  Ah, nay!  For through perpetual days
  Of summer gold and filmy haze,
  When Autumn dies in Winter’s sleet,
  I yet will see those dew-washed feet,
  And o’er the tracts of Life and Time
  They make the cadence for my rhyme.

THE PERPETUAL WOOING.

  The dull world clamors at my feet
  And asks my hand and helping sweet;
  And wonders when the time shall be
  I’ll leave off dreaming dreams of thee. 
  It blames me coining soul and time
  And sending minted bits of rhyme—­
      A-wooing of thee still.

  Shall I make answer?  This it is: 
  I camp beneath thy galaxies
  Of starry thoughts and shining deeds;
  And, seeing new ones, I must needs
  Arouse my speech to tell thee, dear,
  Though thou art nearer, I am near—­
      A-wooing of thee still.

  I feel thy heart-beat next mine own;
  Its music hath a richer tone. 
  I rediscover in thine eyes
  A balmier, dewier paradise. 
  I’m sure thou art a rarer girl—­
  And so I seek thee, finest pearl,
      A-wooing of thee still.

  With blood of roses on thy lips—­
  Canst doubt my trembling?—­something slips
  Between thy loveliness and me—­
  So commonplace, so fond of thee. 
  Ah, sweet, a kiss is waiting where
  That last one stopped thy lover’s prayer—­
      A-wooing of thee still.

  When new light falls upon thy face
  My gladdened soul discerns some trace
  Of God, or angel, never seen
  In other days of shade and sheen. 
  Ne’er may such rapture die, or less
  Than joy like this my heart confess—­
      A-wooing of thee still.

  Go thou, O soul of beauty, go
  Fleet-footed toward the heavens aglow. 
  Mayhap, in following, thou shalt see
  Me worthier of thy love and thee. 
  Thou wouldst not have me satisfied
  Until thou lov’st me—­none beside—­
      A-wooing of thee still.

  This was a song of years ago—­
  Of spring!  Now drifting flowers of snow
  Bloom on the window-sills as white
  As gray-beard looking through love’s light
  And holding blue-veined hands the while. 
  He finds her last—­the sweetest smile—­
      A-wooing of her still.

MY PLAYMATES.