72 June Poems to Celebrate the Glorious Summer Time

The month of June heralds the arrival of summer, a season of warmth, light, and vibrant energy.

It’s a time to celebrate the abundance of nature, from the lush greenery of trees and meadows to the vibrant colors of flowers and wildlife.

Poets have long been inspired by the beauty and vitality of summer, using their words to capture the joy and exuberance of this season.

Whether it’s the sun’s warmth, the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, or the sound of birds singing in the trees, there’s no shortage of inspiration for poets seeking to celebrate the glorious summer in June.

As a result, we have many June poems. Let’s see these poems about the month of June.

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Best June Poems

June has inspired many great poets throughout history to write about the beauty and richness of this season. Here we have some of the best poems about June to celebrate the summer.

1. June’s Coming

       by John Burroughs

Now have come the shining days

When field and wood are robed anew,

And o’er the world a silver haze

Mingles the emerald with the blue.

Summer now doth clothe the land

In garments free from spot or stain—

The lustrous leaves, the hills untanned,

The vivid meads, the glaucous grain.

The day looks new, a coin unworn,

Freshly stamped in heavenly mint;

The sky keeps on its look of morn;

Of age and death there is no hint.

How soft the landscape near and far!

A shining veil the trees infold;

The day remembers moon and star;

A silver lining hath its gold.

Again I see the clover bloom,

And wade in grasses lush and sweet;

Again has vanished all my gloom

With daisies smiling at my feet.

Again from out the garden hives

The exodus of frenzied bees;

The humming cyclone onward drives,

Or finds repose amid the trees.

At dawn the river seems a shade—

A liquid shadow deep as space;

But when the sun the mist has laid,

A diamond shower smites its face.

The season’s tide now nears its height,

And gives to earth an aspect new;

Now every shoal is hid from sight,

With current fresh as morning dew

2. A New England June

       by Bliss Carman

These things I remember

Of New England June,

Like a vivid day-dream

In the azure noon,

While one haunting figure

Strays through every scene,

Like the soul of beauty

Through her lost demesne.

Gardens full of roses

And peonies a-blow

In the dewy morning,

Row on stately row,

Spreading their gay patterns,

Crimson, pied and cream,

Like some gorgeous fresco

Or an Eastern dream.

Nets of waving sunlight

Falling through the trees;

Fields of gold-white daisies

Rippling in the breeze:

Lazy lifting groundswells,

Breaking green as jade

On the lilac beaches,

Where the shore-birds wade.

Orchards full of blossom,

Where the bob-white calls

And the honeysuckle

Climbs the old gray walls;

Groves of silver birches,

Beds of roadside fern,

In the stone-fenced pasture

At the river’s turn.

Out of every picture

Still she comes to me

With the morning freshness

Of the summer sea, —

A glory in her bearing,

A sea-light in her eyes,

As if she could not forget

The spell of Paradise.

Thrushes in the deep woods,

With their golden themes,

Fluting like the choirs

At the birth of dreams.

Fireflies in the meadows

At the gate of Night,

With their fairy lanterns

Twinkling soft and bright.

Ah, not in the roses,

Nor the azure noon,

Nor the thrushes’ music,

Lies the soul of June.

It is something finer,

More unfading far,

Than the primrose evening

And the silver star;

Something of the rapture

My beloved had,

When she made the morning

Radiant and glad,—

Something of her gracious

Ecstasy of mien,

That still haunts the twilight,

Loving though unseen.

When the ghostly moonlight

Walks my garden ground,

Like a leisurely patrol

On his nightly round,

These things I remember

Of the long ago,

While the slumbrous roses

Neither care nor know.

3. The Breezes of June

       by Paul Hamilton Hayne

On! sweet and soft,

Returning oft,

As oft they pass benignly,

The warm June breezes come and go,

Through golden rounds of murmurous flow,

At length to sigh,

Wax faint and die,

Far down the panting primrose sky,


Though soft and low

These breezes blow,

Their voice is passion’s wholly;

And ah! our hearts go forth to meet

The burden of their music sweet,

Ere yet it sighs,

Faints, falters, dies

Down the rich path of sunset skies—

Half glad, half melancholy!

Bend, bend thine ear!

Oh! hark and hear

What vows each blithe new-comer!

Each warm June breeze that comes goes,

Is whispering to the royal rose,

And star-pale lily, trembling nigh,

Ere yet in subtlest harmony

Its murmurs die,

Wax faint and die

On thy flushed bosom, passionate sky,

Of youthful summer!

4. June

       by Lottie Brown Allen

Oh what is sweeter than the month of June

When our senses thrill and our hearts keep tune

To the song of the birds and the rose in bloom?

Oh what is more joy than the early gray

Of the dewy morn and the sun’s first ray

That herald the dawn of a perfect day?

Oh what is more fair as the sun climbs high

Than the azure hue of the summer sky

And the snow-white clouds drifting idly by?

Oh what is more pure than the summer air

That wafts from the woodlands and gardens fair

A fragrance and perfume so rich and rare?

Oh what is more dear than the twilight hour

When the daylight fades and each nodding flower

Is kissed by the moonbeams’ mystic power?

O, Summer Queen! you are gone too soon

With your sunny days and your shining moon,

With your golden grain and your wealth of bloom.

And if we could hold in some magic way

To your trailing robes for a single day,

Dear month of June, we would bid you stay.

5. Southwestern June

       by Charles Badger Clark

Lazy little hawse, it’s noon

And we’ve wasted saddle leather,

But the mornin’s slip so soon

When we drift around together

In this lazy, shinin’ weather,

Sunny, easy-goin’ June.

Who kin study shamblin’ herds,

How they calve or die or wander,

When the bridegroom mockin’-birds,

Singin’ here and there and yonder,

Trill that June’s too bright to ponder

And life’s just too fine for words!

Down the desert’s hazy blue

See the tall gray whirlwinds farin’,

Slow, contented sort of crew

Trailin’ ‘cross the sunny barren,

Headed nowhere and not carin’

Just the same as me and you.

From a world of unfenced room

Just a breath of breeze is strayin’,

Triflin’ with the yucca bloom

Till its waxy bells are swayin’,

On my cheek warm kisses layin’

Soft as touch of ostrich plume.

When the July lightnin’ gleams

This brown range will start to workin’,

Hills be green and tricklin’ streams

Down each deep arroyo lurkin’;

Now the sleepy land is shirkin’,

Drowzin’, smilin’ in her dreams.

Steppin’ little hawse, it’s noon.

Turquoise blue the far hills glimmer;

“Sun—sun—sun,” the mockers croon

Where the yellow range lands shimmer,

And our sparklin’ spirits simmer

For we’re young yet, and it’s June!

6. Dawn in June

       by Ruby Archer

Oh, the freshness of the morning, the early morning rosy,

When the kiss of night, betrayed in dew, yet lingers on the leaves;

And the air brims o’er with sweetness, like a cool and fragrant posy;

And the wanton elves of sunshine frolic laughing ’round the eaves.

All the time the very instinct that impels the lark and swallow

To dart along the sunlight with quick-beating throat and wings,

Thrills the human heart with rapture ’till it fain would fly and follow,

And within the breast it trembles, and it sings—ah, how it sings!

7. June (In Rotten Row)

      by J. Ashby-Sterry

In Rotten Row, ’tis nice, you know,

To see the tide of Fashion flow!

Though hopeless cynics carp and croon —

I do not care one macaroon —

But love to watch the passing show!

You’ll find it anything but slow,

To laugh and chaff with those you know;

And pleasant then to sit at noon,

In Rotten Row!

When Summer breezes whisper low,

And countless riders come and go;

Beneath the trees in leafy June,

I love to sit and muse and moon —

While beauties canter to and fro —

In Rotten Row!

Famous June Poems

June has inspired many famous poets to write about the beauty and richness of this season. Here are some of the most notable famous poems about June throughout history.

1. June Day

       by Hilda Conkling

I’ve had a good time today, Mother!

I feel happy as a starling on a cherry-bough.

Young plants coming . . .

Apples swelling . . .

(But the biggest of the feelings I know

Will always be cherries ripening In the light!)

The song of the catbird touched my heart.

I swang In the breeze with my thoughts floating around me. . . .

Thoughts of little robins

Trying to eat cherries,

Thoughts of baby grackles in their nests

At sunset-time,

These were in the shade, these were soft-colored thoughts

Under the apple-tree as I swang. . . .

2. The Poet in June

       by M. P. A. Crozier

Tis bliss to have the poet’s heart

That loves the quietude of things,

Where nature smiles her bidden rocks,

And brings out sweet and cooling springs.

The June-green grass beneath my feet,

The dandelion’s disk of gold,

The corn’s slim spire just pushing out

From clean brown beds of kindly mold.

Bid welcome as I pass along

The harvest way across the lea;

While songs of birds are in my soul.

And eyes of flowers make love to me.

Down in the meadow’s gliding stream

The children splash their snowy feet,

And all their laughter comes to me

Across the fields of growing wheat.

3. In June

       by Matilda Hughes

A quiet hour beneath the trees;

A little, whispering, lazy breeze;

A perfect sky,

Where, now and then, an idle cloud

Strayed from its mates to wander by,

And near the border of the wood

A thrush that sang, serene and strong,

The flute notes of the perfect song

We almost understood;

Then eventide—and in the light

The mystery that preludes the night.

4. June

       by Douglas Malloch

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming!

Among the alders by the stream I heard a partridge drumming;

I heard a partridge drumming, June, a welcome with his wings,

And felt a softness in the air half Summer’s and half Spring’s.

I knew that you were nearing, June, I knew that you were nearing—

I saw it in the bursting buds of roses in the clearing;

The roses in the clearing, June, were blushing pink and red,

For they had heard upon the hills the echo of your tread.

I knew that you were coming, June, I knew that you were coming,

For ev’ry warbler in the wood a song of joy was humming.

I know that you are here, June, I know that you are here—

The fairy month, the merry month, the laughter of the year!

5. All in June Poem

       by William Henry Davies

A week ago I had a fire

To warm my feet, my hands and face;

Cold winds, that never make a friend,

Crept in and out of every place.

Today the fields are rich in grass,

And buttercups in thousands grow;

I’ll show the world where I have been–

With gold-dust seen on either shoe.

Till to my garden back I come,

Where bumble-bees for hours and hours

Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,

To wriggle out of hollow flowers.

6. The Approach of June, or The Month of Roses

       by Eliza and Sara Wolcott

‘Tis blushing on through brier and thorn,

The wintry winds are still;

Now softer zephyrs waft along,

The month of June to fill.

Soft dews descend upon the flowers

And kindly rest awhile;

‘Tis sweet to wait upon these hours,

To see the roses smile.

How beautiful the charming scene,

‘Tis far surpassing art,

Like purity in heavenly mien,

Reviving to the heart.

Sweet exhalations fill the air,

While music in the grove,

Invites my pensive soul to share

In all the songs of love.

Put off thy wintry robe my soul,

Born to rejoice and sing,

Let gratitude thy lips control

In praises to your king.

The soul with innocence possess’d,

Her incense safe may bear

To Christ, whose righteousness hath bless’d

The humblest form of prayer.

Thus while the roses greet our eyes,

In all their rich perfume,

Should our prayers like incense rise,

Our summer to illume.

7. In June

       by Ethelwyn Wetherald

The trees are full, the winds are tame,

The fields are pictures in a frame

Of leafy roads and fair abodes,

Steeped in content too large for name.

Across a slender bridge of night

The luminous days are swift in flight,

As though ’twere wrong to cover song

And scent and greenness from the light.

Within the snowy clouds above

Sits viewless Peace, a brooding dove;

For every nest there beats a breast,

For every love some answering love.

The ways are thronged with angel wings,

The heart with angel whisperings;

And as it seems in happy dreams

The bird of gladness sings and sings.

Funny June Poems

While summer is often associated with warmth and joy, it can also be a vibrant time of humor and light-heartedness. Here are some interesting June poems to lift your spirits and make you laugh.

1. June

       by Helen Hunt Jackson

O month whose promise and fulfilment blend,

And burst in one! it seems the earth can store

In all her roomy house no treasure more;

Of all her wealth no farthing have to spend

On fruit, when once this stintless flowering end.

And yet no tiniest flower shall fall before

It hath made ready at its hidden core

Its tithe of seed, which we may count and tend

Till harvest. Joy of blossomed love, for thee

Seems it no fairer thing can yet have birth?

No room is left for deeper ecstacy?

Watch well if seeds grow strong, to scatter free

Germs for thy future summers on the earth.

A joy which is but joy soon comes to dearth.

2. June

       by Guy Wetmore Carry

Lightsome, laughter-loving June,

Days that swoon

In beds of flowers;

Twilights dipped in rose perfume,

Nights of gloom

Washed clear by showers.

Suns that softly sink to rest

In the west,

All purple barred;

And a faint night-wind that sighs

Under skies

Still, silver-starred.

Languorous breaths of meadow land

Overs panned

By clouds like snow;

And a shouting from the brooks,

Where in nooks

Late violets grow.

June, ah, June, to lie and dream

By the stream,

And in the maze

Of thy spells never to heed

How they speed,

Thy witching days;

Watching where the shadows pass,

And the grass

All rustling bends,

While the bees fly east and west,

On a quest

That never ends.

Thus to shun the whirl of life,

Freed from strife

And freed from care

Hear, as when a lad I heard

How the bird

Sings, high in air.

June, to hear beneath the skies


That night airs blow;

Ah, to find upon thy breast

That pure rest

I used to know!

3. When June is Come (1)

       by Robert Bridges

When June is come, then all the day

I’ll sit with my love in the scented hay:

And watch the sunshot palaces high,

That the white clouds build in the breezy sky.

She singeth, and I do make her a song,

And read sweet poems the whole day long:

Unseen as we lie in our haybuilt home.

O life is delight when June is come.

4. When June is Come (2)

       by Robert Bridges

The pinks along my garden walks

Have all shot forth their summer stalks,

Thronging their buds ‘mong tulips hot,

And blue forget-me-not.

Their dazzling snows forth-bursting soon

Will lade the idle breath of June:

And waken thro’ the fragrant night

To steal the pale moonlight.

The nightingale at end of May

Lingers each year for their display;

Till when he sees their blossoms blown,

He knows the spring is flown.

June’s birth they greet, and when their bloom

Dislustres, withering on his tomb,

Then summer hath a shortening day;

And steps slow to decay.

5. In June

       by Albert E.S. Smythe

Oh! Wearily and wearily the days

Have worn themselves from winter into June,

For tardily and tediously delays

The summer’s perfect loveliness of noon.

The sun that soars in heat and sinks in haze,

The flowers that wrap themselves in scent and swoon,

The wind that hardly goes and hardly stays,

The lazy birds that chirp a slothful tune,

The quiet rippling water running by,

The leaves that rustle loosely overhead,

All peacefully I ponder as I lie

Long thinking in my shady grass-grown bed,

And musing on them for a pastime try

To realize the winter world instead,

And this seems like a dream before we die,

And that is like a dream of lying dead.

6. We Real Cool Poem

       by Gwendolyn Brooks

The Pool Players.

Seven at the Golden Shovel.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

7. Your Voice, With Clear Location of June Days

       by Richard Wilbur

Your voice, with clear location of June days,

Called me outside the window.  You were there,

Light yet composed, as in the just soft stare

Of uncontested summer all things raise

Plainly their seeming into seamless air.

Then your love looked as simple and entire

As that picked pear you tossed me, and your face

As legible as pear skin’s fleck and trace,

Which promise always wine, by mottled fire

More fatal fleshed than ever human grace.

And your gay gift—Oh when I saw it fall

Into my hands, through all that naïve light,

It seemed as blessed with truth and new delight

As must have been the first great gift of all.

Short June Poems

Short June poems can capture the essence of this beautiful season in just a few lines. Here are some short poetries about June that are brief yet powerful poems to celebrate the joys of summer.

1. A Night in June

       by Madison Cawein

White as a lily moulded of Earth’s milk

That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;

Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,

Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:

Bright as a naiad’s leap, from shine to shade

The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;

Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,

Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.

And when the western sky seemed some weird land,

And night a witching spell at whose command

One sloping star fell green from heav’n; and deep

The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;

Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,

And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.

2. June

       by Rebecca Hey

This is the year’s sweet prime! Methinks, like Youth,

‘Tis poetry embodied! Nay, I deem,

Delightsome June! that Fancy’s brightest dream

Outvies not thy fair beauty; nay in sooth,

For once she need but borrow hues from Truth

To picture thee. Now yield we every sense

To the sweet season’s genial influence,

And banish from our bosoms care and ruth.

Ask we for fragrance? lo! each little flower

Yields to our scarce-breathed wish its incense sweet;

For music? hie we to the glade and bower,

There the blithe birds shall give us welcome meet;

For beauty? deck’d in all its living power,

Earth lays her brightest trophies at our feet.

3. But One

       by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The year has but one June, dear friend,

The year has but one June;

And when that perfect month doth end,

The robin’s song, though loud, though long,

Seems never quite in tune.

The rose, though still its blushing face

By bee and bird is seen,

May yet have lost that subtle grace—

That nameless spell the winds know well—

Which makes its gardens queen.

Life’s perfect June, love’s red, red rose,

Have burned and bloomed for me.

Though still youth’s summer sunlight glows;

Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find

I have no heart for thee.

4. June

       by Thomas Wentworth Higginson

She needs no teaching,—no defect is hers;

She stands in all her beauty ‘mid the trees,

‘Neath the tall pines her golden sunshine stirs

And shifts and trembles with each passing breeze.

All the long day upon the broad green boughs

Lieth the lustre of her lovely life,

While too much drugged with rapture to carouse

Broods her soft world of insect-being rife.

So without effort or perplexing thought

She comes to claim all homage as her own,

Clad in the richest garments Nature wrought,

Melting the strongest with her magic zone.

O wondrous June! our lives should be like thee,

With such calm grace fulfilling destiny.

5. The Passing June

       by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

I am shut in as June goes by,

And can but see one little tree

Tossing its new leaves to the sky

With the old ecstasy.

And of the sky itself I see

Only a curving arc of blue,

That brings the larkspur dawn to me

And holds the evening true.

I am shut in as June goes by,

But every day you come to me,

And I am glad to lose the sky

And every dancing tree.

6. June’s Flag

       by Annette Wynne

June flung her flag out

Shining wet with dew,—

Red and white the clover

And a sky of blue!

June sang a song to the flag of the free,

The wind caught the music and sang it to the tree,

The sky caught the music and sang it ‘cross the sea;

The sea caught the music and flung it round the world;

Then a million flags like June’s flag were instantly unfurled,

So sing on forever, O wind, and sky, and sea,

And wave on so forever, bright flag of the free!

7. June

       by Virna Sheard

Now by every meadow-side the buttercups blow –

(O June, you are spendthrift of your gold!)

Green are the uplands where the little lambs go,

Green and glad the forests that are old.

Once again the summer weaves on her magic loom,

Cloth of clover,- fairy web of wheat;-

Only Mary’s alabaster box of perfume

Ever made the passing wind more sweet.

Even through the city where the dusty roads run,

Blue runs now the river to the sea.

Tender is the twilight when the long day is done,-

Infinite the stars’ tranquillity.

Not forever are the rains or the winter snows,

All these past – nor shall be overlong,-

And with every lovely June cometh the rose,

The sweet blue dusk,- a night-bird’s wonder-song!

Long June Poems

For some poets, the beauty and richness of June cannot be captured in just a few lines. These long poetries about June take readers on a journey through the season’s sights, sounds, and emotions. Here are some examples of these epic poems.

1. The Shepheardes Calendar: June

       by Edmund Spencer

Here the place, whose pleas aunt syte

From other shades hath weand my wandring mynde.

Tell me, what wants me here, to worke delyte?

The simple ayre, the gentle warbling wynde,

So calme, so coole, as nowhere else I fynde:

The grassye ground with daintye Daysies dight,

The Bramble bush, where Byrds of euery kynde

To the waters fall their tunes attemper right.

O happy Hobbinoll, I blesse thy state,

That Paradise hast found, whych Adam lost.

Here wander may thy flock early or late,

Withouten dreade of Wolues to bene ytost:

Thy louely layes here mayet thou freely boste.

But I vnhappy man, whom cruell fate,

And angry Gods pursue from coste to coste,

Can nowhere fynd, to shouder my lucklesse pate.

Then if by me thou list aduised be,

Forsake the soyle, that so doth the bewitch:

Leaue me those hilles, where harbrough nis to see,

Nor holybush, nor brere, nor winding witche:

And to the dales resort, where shepheards ritch,

And fruictfull flocks bene euery where to see.

Here no night Rauens lodge more blacke then pitche,

Nor eluish ghosts, nor gastly owles doe flee.

 But frendly Faeries, met with many Graces,

And lightfote Nymphes can chace the lingring night,

With Heydeguyes, and trimly trodden traces,

Whilst systers nyne, which dwell on Parnasse hight,

Doe make them musick, for their more delight:

And Pan himselfe to kisse their christall faces,

Will pype and daunce, when Phoebe shineth bright:

Such pierlesse pleasures haue we in these places.

And I, whylst youth, and course of carelesse yeeres

Did let me walke withouten lincks of loue,

In such delights did ioy amongst my peeres:

But ryper age such pleasures doth reproue,

My fancye eke from former follies moue

To stayed steps: for time in passing weares

(As garments doen, which wexen old aboue)

And draweth newe delightes with hoary heares.

 Tho couth I sing of loue, and tune my pype

Vnto my plaintiue pleas in verses made:

Tho would I seeke ,

To giue my Rosalind, and in Sommer shade

Dight gaudy Girlonds, was my comen trade,

To crowne her golden locks, but yeeres more rype,

And losse of her, whose loue as lyfe I wayd,

Those weary wanton toyes away dyd wype.

Colin, to he are thy rymes and roundelayes,

Which thou were wont on wastfull hylls to singe,

I more delight, then larke in Sommer dayes:

Whose Echo made the neyghbour groues to ring,

And taught the byrds, which in the lower spring

Did shroude in shady leaues from sonny rayes,

Frame to thy songe their chereful cheriping,

Or hold theyr peace, for shame of thy swete layes.

 I sawe Calliope wyth Muses moe,

Soone as thy oaten pype began to sound,

Theyr youry Luyts and Tamburins forgoe:

And from the fountaine, where they sat around,

Renne after hastely thy siluer sound.

But when they came, where thou thy skill didst showe,

They drewe abacke, as halfe with shame confound,

Shepheard to see, them in theyr art outgoe.

2. The Shepherd’s Calendar – June Poem

       by John Clare

Now summer is in flower and natures hum

Is never silent round her sultry bloom

Insects as small as dust are never done

Wi’ glittering dance and reeling in the sun

And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee

Are never weary of their melody

Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine

Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine

That lift athirst their slender throated flowers

Agape for dew falls and for honey showers

These round each bush in sweet disorder run

And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun

Where its silk netting lace on twigs and leaves

The mottld spider at eves leisure weaves

That every morning meet the poets eye

Like fair eys dew wet dresses hung to dry

The wheat swells into ear and leaves below

The may month wild flowers and their gaudy show

Bright car lock bluecap and corn poppy red

Which in such clouds of colors wid [e] ly spread

That at the sun rise might to fancys eye

Seem to reflect the many colord sky

And leverets seat and lark and partridge nest

It leaves a schoolboys height in snugger rest

And oer the weeders labour overgrows

Who now in merry groups each morning goes

To willow skirted meads wi fork and rake

The scented hay cocks in long rows to make

Where their old visitors in russet brown

The haytime butterflies dance up and down

And gads that teaze like whasps the timid maid

And drive the herd boys cows to pond and shade

Who when his dogs assistance fails to stop

Is forcd his half made oaten pipes to drop

And start and hallo thro the dancing heat

To keep their gadding tumult from the wheat

Who in their rage will dangers overlook

And leap like hunters oer the pasture brook

Brushing thro blossomd beans in maddening haste

And ‘stroying corn they scarce can stop to taste

Labour pursues its toil in weary mood

And feign woud rest wi shadows in the wood

The mowing gangs bend oer the beeded grass

Where oft the gipseys hungry journeying ass

Will turn its wishes from the meadow paths

Listening the rustle of the falling swaths

The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales

And down the suncrackt furrow slowly trails

Oft seeking when athirst the brooks supply

Where brushing eager the brinks bushes bye

For coolest water he oft brakes the rest

Of ring dove brooding oer its idle nest

And there as loath to leave the swaily place

He’ll stand to breath and whipe his burning face

The shepherds idle hours are over now

Nor longer leaves him neath the hedgrow bough

On shadow pillowd banks and lolling stile

Wilds loses now their summer friends awhile

Shrill whistles barking dogs and chiding scold

Drive bleating sheep each morn from fallow fold

To wash pits where the willow shadows lean

Dashing them in their fold staind coats to clean

Then turnd on sunning sward to dry agen

They drove them homeward to the clipping pen

In hurdles pent where elm or sycamore

Shut out the sun-or in some threshing floor

There they wi scraps of songs and laugh and tale

Lighten their anual toils while merry ale

Goes round and gladdens old mens hearts to praise

The thread bare customs of old farmers days

Who while the sturting sheep wi trembling fears

Lies neath the snipping of his harmless sheers

Recalls full many a thing by bards unsung

And pride forgot-that reignd when he was young

How the hugh bowl was in the middle set

At breakfast time as clippers yearly met

Filld full of frumity where yearly swum

The streaking sugar and the spotting plumb

Which maids coud never to the table bring

Without one rising from the merry ring

To lend a hand who if twas taen amiss

Woud sell his kindness for a stolen kiss

The large stone pitcher in its homly trim

And clouded pint horn wi its copper rim

Oer which rude healths was drank in spirits high

From the best broach the cellar woud supply

While sung the ancient swains in homly ryhmes

Songs that were pictures of the good old times

When leathern bottles held the beer nut brown

That wakd the sun wi songs and sung him down

Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail

Till toiling sheers gain ground upon the tale

And brakes it off-when from the timid sheep

The fleece is shorn and wi a fearfull leap

He starts-while wi a pressing hand

His sides are printed by the tarry brand

Shaking his naked skin wi wondering joys

And fresh ones are tugd in by sturdy boys

Who when theyre thrown down neath the sheering swain

Will wipe his brow and start his tale again

Tho fashions haughtv frown hath thrown aside

Half the old forms simplicity supplyd

Yet there are some prides winter deigns to spare

Left like green ivy when the trees are bare

And now when sheering of the flocks are done

Some ancient customs mixd wi harmless fun

Crowns the swains merry toils-the timid maid

Pleasd to be praisd and yet of praise affraid

Seeks her best flowers not those of woods and fields

But such as every farmers garden yield

Fine cabbage roses painted like her face

And shining pansys trimmd in golden lace

And tall tuft larkheels featherd thick wi flowers

And woodbines climbing oer the door in bowers

And London tufts of many a mottld hue

And pale pink pea and monkshood darkly blue

And white and purple jiliflowers that stay

Lingering in blossom summer half away

And single blood walls of a lucious smell

Old fashiond flowers which huswives love so well

And columbines stone blue or deep night brown

Their honey-comb-like blossoms hanging down

Each cottage gardens fond adopted child

Tho heaths still claim them where they yet grow wild

Mong their old wild companions summer blooms

Furze brake and mozzling ling and golden broom

Snap dragons gaping like to sleeping clowns

And ‘clipping pinks’ (which maidens sunday gowns

Full often wear catcht at by tozing chaps)

Pink as the ribbons round their snowy caps

‘Bess in her bravery’ too of glowing dyes

As deep as sunsets crimson pillowd skyes

And majoram notts sweet briar and ribbon grass

And lavender the choice of every lass

And sprigs of lads love all familiar names

Which every garden thro the village claims

These the maid gathers wi a coy delight

And tyes them up in readiness for night

Giving to every swain tween love and shame

Her ‘clipping poseys’ as their yearly claim

And turning as he claims the custom kiss

Wi stifld smiles half ankering after bliss

She shrinks away and blushing calls it rude

But turns to smile and hopes to be pursued

While one to whom the seeming hint applied

Follows to claim it and is not denyd

No doubt a lover for within his coat

His nosegay owns each flower of better sort

And when the envious mutter oer their beer

And nodd the secret to his neighbor near

Raising the laugh to make the mutter known

She blushes silent and will not disown

And ale and songs and healths and merry ways

Keeps up a shadow of old farmers days

But the old beachen bowl that once supplyd

Its feast of frumity is thrown aside

And the old freedom that was living then

When masters made them merry wi their men

Whose coat was like his neighbors russet brown

And whose rude speech was vulgar as his clown

Who in the same horn drank the rest among

And joind the chorus while a labourer sung

All this is past-and soon may pass away

The time torn remnant of the holiday

As proud distinction makes a wider space

Between the genteel and the vulgar race

Then must they fade as pride oer custom showers

Its blighting mildew on her feeble flowers

3. June

       by William Cullen Bryant

I gazed upon the glorious sky

And the green mountains round;

And thought, that when I came to lie

Within the silent ground,

‘Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,

When brooks sent up a cheerful tune,

And groves a joyous sound,

The sexton’s hand, my grave to make,

The rich, green mountain turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould,

A coffin borne through sleet,

And icy clods above it rolled,

While fierce the tempests beat—

Away!—I will not think of these—

Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,

Earth green beneath the feet,

And be the damp mould gently pressed

Into my narrow place of rest.

There, through the long, long summer hours,

The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers

Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell

His love-tale, close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard

The housewife-bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts, at noon,

Come from the village sent,

Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,

With fairy laughter blent?

And what if, in the evening light,

Betrothed lovers walk in sight

Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around

Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see

The season’s glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,

Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,

The friends I love should come to weep,

They might not haste to go.

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear

The thought of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene;

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills

The circuit of the summer hills,

Is—that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice

To hear, again, his living voice.

4. June in Maine

       by Hannah Augusta Moore

Beautiful, beautiful summer!

Odorous, exquisite June!

All the sweet roses in blossom,

All the sweet birdies in tune.

Dew on the meadows at sunset;

Gems on the meadows at morn;

Melody hushing the evening;

Melody greeting the dawn.

All the dim aisles of the forest

Ringing and thrilling with song;

Music—a flood-tide of music—

Poured the green valleys along.

Rapturous creatures of beauty.

Winging their way through the sky,

Heavenward warble their praises—

Mount our thanksgivings as high?

Lo! when a bird is delighted,

His ecstacy prompts him to soar;

The greater, the fuller his rapture,

His songs of thanksgiving the more.

See how the winds from the mountains

Sweep over meadows most fair;

The green fields are tossed like the ocean,

Are shadowed by clouds in the air.

For now fleecy shadows are chasing

The sunshine from woodland and vale,

As white clouds come gathering slowly,

Blown up by the sweet-scented gale

Birds and the gales and the flowers

Call us from study away,

Out to the fields where the mowers

Soon will be making the hay.

Buttercups, daisies, and clover,

Roses, sweet-briar, and fern,

Mingle their breath on the breezes—

Who from such wooing could turn?

Out! to the heath and the mountain,

Where mid the fern and the brake,

Under the pines and the spruces,

Fragrant the bower we will make.

Ravishing voices of Nature,

Ye conquer—and never too soon—

We yield to thy luscious embraces,

Thou odorous, exquisite June!

5. June

       by Ellwood Roberts

Sweet month of June!

We would not have thee pass away too soon.

Thy long bright days are filled with pure delight,

And full of beauty every star-lit night.

Thy coming makes Spring’s miracle complete

And perfect now, amid the Summer heat.

Field, forest, valley, hill, in splendor lie,

Beneath the glowing azure of thy sky.

The whole green earth is crowned with joy to-day,

Creation’s myriad voices bid thee stay.

Go not too soon!

Thy balmy air

Is redolent of roses; beauty fills

The whole bright circle of the Summer hills;

The universe is like a harp that thrills

To touch of but one master; thou art he,

And the whole earth makes mighty jubilee.

Ten thousand voices, through the long months still,

Before thy advent, waken at thy will;

Now the grand chorus rises, night and day,

All pulses bound with life beneath thy sway;

All creatures strive to make amends, this hour,

For months of silence with their utmost power;

This all their care.

Who would not stay

Amid such loveliness as thine, oh, June?

The magic glory of thy splendid noon

Is all too brief, and fades its light too soon.

Who would not linger gazing on the scene?

The Earth is decked in bridal robes of green;

Her bridegroom is the Sun; his loving glance

Must all the beauty of her charms enhance;

And Nature hails the nuptial rites with glee.

Her children’s voices sound a jubilee

The livelong day.

In the calm night,

The silent dews of heaven in peace distill;

Each tender blade of grass absorbs its fill,

Each is refreshed, in valley or on hill.

The gentle breezes stir the heated air,

And on their wings the scent of flowers bear—

Where harvests rich and glad and golden grow,

Make the wheat bend and rustle as they blow.

The night promotes abundance in its way,

It has its share in all, as well as day

With sunbeams bright.

Bid care begone!

When earth is bright with flowers, when roses bloom,

When floats on every breeze their soft perfume,

It is no time for sadness or for gloom.

When the whole universe is bathed in light,

Shall human hearts be clothed in shades of night?

When valley, hill-top, grove, with music ring,

Shall man, perverse, alone refuse to sing?

Shall doubt or gloom within his bosom dwell,

When lower creatures one glad chorus swell,

From dawn to dawn?

Day unto day,

And night to night repeat the tender strain,

Ten-million throats take up the glad refrain,

And tell the wondrous story o’er again,

With endless repetition. Fruitful fields

Repeat it, in the plenty each one yields.

The orchard and the grove are gay with song,

All day; at night, the echoes linger long.

The mountains, clothed in grandeur, all rejoice,

The hills and vales awake and find a voice,

Beneath thy sway.

Glad month of June!

Thy days are bright with early Summer’s light,

And witching beauty fills each star-lit night.

A thousand glories burst upon the sight,

Of those who wait and watch thy coming bright.

The miracle of Spring complete they see;

Thy advent fills the earth with melody.

The Schuylkill sweeps in flashing splendor by;

Beneath the wondrous glory of thy sky,

River and landscape, both in beauty lie.

We love the soft light of thy glowing noon,

We would not have thee pass, oh, blessed June!

Away too soon.

6. June: A Pastoral Poem

       by William Perfect

The dog-rose, of light-blushing hue,

Or painted in crimson-like vest,

Profuse in her bloom to the view,

The hedge-rows in splendour has drest.

The season of pleasure my lay

Extends in the country so bright;

The sweets of the new-tedded hay,

Each object of sound and of sight.

The trees we beheld in full dress,

Profusion of flowers around

The beauties of Nature confess,

In vivid sublimity crown’d,

On the banks of the river so clear,

Emerg’d from its wave are the flocks;

They mark the gay time of the year,

Depriv’d of their white fleecy locks.

When past is the soft copious shower,

The sweets of Arabia we find;

From the beds of the clover to flower

, And the bee-loving suckle resign’d.

More delicious the odours that rise

On the gales from the blue-bosom’d bean;

All Sweetness herself can comprize

Is pour’d in extend through the scene.

Whilst Summer, bright child of the Sun,

With mildness rekindles his fire;

And June, by his courtesy won,

Apparels in golden attire.

To her Prince Freedom offers the lay,

Whose sons the choice tribute support;

In duty rejoice at the day,

By far the most splendid at court.

Admit humble zeal to prevail,

From a Muse through unpolish’d to spring;

Bear hence, each Favonian gale,

The strain she devotes to her King.

No Laureat — what merit have I?

Pretension to fabricate praise?

Though humble and weak, yet too high

To flatter in time-serving lays.

My heart, by sincerity led,

The day of his birth shall revere,

That Peace may, her olive-branch spread,

Extend through each following year.

From my bosom warm wishes emane,

Ye Powers this blessing to send:

In the hearts of his subjects to reign

Till Time’s latest period shall end.

Behold in what splendour appears,

In majesty boundless and wide,

The Sun through the dawn’s pearly tears

Pouring down his ineffable tide.

Now beams in illustrious array,

And warms the aetherial gale,

Which nurtures the pride of the day,

From the hill to the green-herbag’d dale.

The bleatings of sheep from the hills,

The silence and peace of the grove,

The murmurs that rise from the rills,

And the reed from the shady alcove;

The zephyrs that pinion the hours,

The fragrance they widely diffuse,

The pasture, thick chequer’d with flowers,

Are themes that embellish my Muse.

How smooth and how tranquil the stream

Meanders the vallies along,

Its crystal improv’d by the beam

That wakens Aurora’s first song!

The leaf by the gale unoppress’d,

The landscapes of Beauty and Grace,

Soft pleasures convey to the breast,

The smiles of the heart to the face.

Yet whither, my Muse, would you stray,

Evading this season of sweets?

Why turn from the purple-ey’d day,

From Pleasure’s umbrageous retreats?

From the beech, ever vivid of shade,

The lime that elongates the lawn,

The oak, in dark foliage array’d,

Ah, why are thy visits withdrawn?

From the parks and the sports of the field,

Where plenty and happiness reign,

Where the smile of Benevolence yield

What blessings from Summer we gain;

Ah why, near yon sorrowful yew,

Of dark and disconsolate shade,

Must Elegy ever renew

Afflictions which never can fade?

Shall Honesto, my father and friend,

Around whose respectable tomb

The Virtues all sorrowful bend,

In plaint recent dirges assume;

While Memory, Genius, and Worth

The red eye of Sorrow dilate;

Must pensively bow to the earth,

And weep his immutable fate?

Can he be forgot whom I lov’d,

Whose breast was so gentle and kind;

Of principles noble approv’d,

The Christian in precept and mind?

Can Time soothe the sigh of my breast?

The thunder that rolls on the hill

Shall sooner he sooth’d into rest,

Its lightnings no terrors instill.

Receive then my measure of woe,

Thou dearest and much-honour’d Shade:

If Virtue departed may know

Affection by relatives paid.

And yearly in Summer, bedeck’d

With splendour and wealth shall return;

My feelings fresh wreaths shall collect,

Honesto, to garnish thy urn.

7. June

       by John Clare

Now Summer is in flower, and Nature’s hum

Is never silent round her bounteous bloom;

Insects, as small as dust, have never done

With glitt’ring dance, and reeling in the sun;

And green wood-fly, and blossom-haunting bee,

Are never weary of their melody.

Round field and hedge, flowers in full glory twine,

Large bind-weed bells, wild hop, and streak’d woodbine,

That lift athirst their slender throated flowers,

Agape for dew-falls, and for honey showers;

These o’er each bush in sweet disorder run,

And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.

The mottled spider, at eve’s leisure, weaves

His webs of silken lace on twigs and leaves,

Which ev’ry morning meet the poet’s eye,

Like fairies’ dew-wet dresses hung to dry.

The wheat swells into ear, and hides below

The May-month wild flowers and their gaudy show,

Leaving, a school-boy’s height, in snugger rest,

The leveret’s seat, and lark, and partridge nest.

The mowers now bend o’er the beaded grass,

Where oft the gipsy’s hungry journeying ass

Will turn his wishes from the meadow paths,

List’ning the rustle of the falling swaths.

The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales,

And down the sun-crack’d furrow slowly trails;

Oft seeking, when athirst, the brook’s supply,

Where, brushing eagerly the bushes by

For coolest water, he disturbs the rest

Of ring-dove, brooding o’er its idle nest.

The shepherd’s leisure hours are over now;

No more he loiters ’neath the hedge-row bough,

On shadow-pillowed banks and lolling stile;

The wilds must lose their summer friend awhile.

With whistle, barking dogs, and chiding scold,

He drives the bleating sheep from fallow fold

To wash-pools, where the willow shadows lean,

Dashing them in, their stained coats to clean;

Then, on the sunny sward, when dry again,

He brings them homeward to the clipping pen,

Of hurdles form’d, where elm or sycamore

Shut out the sun—or to some threshing-floor.

There with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale,

He lightens annual toil, while merry ale

Goes round, and glads some old man’s heart to praise

The threadbare customs of his early days:

How the high bowl was in the middle set

At breakfast time, when clippers yearly met,

Fill’d full of furmety, where dainty swum

The streaking sugar and the spotting plum.

The maids could never to the table bring

The bowl, without one rising from the ring

To lend a hand; who, if ’twere ta’en amiss,

Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.

The large stone pitcher in its homely trim,

And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,

Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits high,

Healths of the best the cellar could supply;

While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,

Songs that were pictures of the good old times.

Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail,

Till toiling shears gain ground upon the tale,

And break it off—for now the timid sheep,

His fleece shorn off, starts with a fearful leap,

Shaking his naked skin with wond’ring joys,

While others are brought in by sturdy boys.

Though fashion’s haughty frown hath thrown aside

Half the old forms simplicity supplied,

Yet there are some pride’s winter deigns to spare,

Left like green ivy when the trees are bare.

And now, when shearing of the flocks is done,

Some ancient customs, mix’d with harmless fun,

Crown the swain’s merry toils. The timid maid,

Pleased to be praised, and yet of praise afraid,

Seeks the best flowers; not those of woods and fields,

But such as every farmer’s garden yields —

Fine cabbage-roses, painted like her face;

The shining pansy, trimm’d with golden lace;

The tall topp’d larkheels, feather’d thick with flowers;

The woodbine, climbing o’er the door in bowers;

The London tufts, of many a mottled hue;

The pale pink pea, and monkshood darkly blue:

The white and purple gilliflowers, that stay

Ling’ring, in blossom, summer half away;

The single blood-walls, of a luscious smell,

Old-fashion’d flowers which housewives love so well;

The columbines, stone-blue, or deep night-brown,

Their honeycomb-like blossoms hanging down,

Each cottage-garden’s fond adopted child,

Though heaths still claim them, where they yet grow wild;

With marjoram knots, sweet-brier, and ribbon-grass,

And lavender, the choice of ev’ry lass,

And sprigs of lad’s-love—all familiar names,

Which every garden through the village claims.

These the maid gathers with a coy delight,

And ties them up, in readiness for night;

Then gives to ev’ry swain, ’tween love and shame,

Her “clipping posies” as his yearly claim.

He rises, to obtain the custom’d kiss:—

With stifled smiles, half hankering after bliss,

She shrinks away, and blushing, calls it rude;

Yet turns to smile, and hopes to be pursued;

While one, to whom the hint may be applied,

Follows to gain it, and is not denied.

The rest the loud laugh raise, to make it known,—

She blushes silent, and will not disown!

Thus ale, and song, and healths, and merry ways,

Keep up a shadow still of former days;

But the old beechen bowl, that once supplied

The feast of furmety, is thrown aside;

And the old freedom that was living then,

When masters made them merry with their men;

When all their coats alike were russet brown,

And his rude speech was vulgar as their own —

All this is past, and soon will pass away

The time-torn remnant of the holiday.

8. June Dreams, in January

       by Sidney Lanier

Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed;

And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness,

Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land,

And camped upon the transient Italy

That he had dreamed to blossom in his soul.

“I’ll date this dream,” he said; “so: `Given, these,

On this, the coldest night in all the year,

From this, the meanest garret in the world,

In this, the greatest city in the land,

To you, the richest folk this side of death,

By one, the hungriest poet under heaven,

– Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust,

And while his last, last ember died of cold,

And while the mortal ice i’ the air made free

Of all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart,

And while soft Luxury made show to strike

Her gloved hands together and to smile

What time her weary feet unconsciously

Trode wheels that lifted Avarice to power,

– And while, moreover, – O thou God, thou God –

His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar,

Within the village whence she sent him forth

Into the town to make his name and fame,

Waiting, all confident and proud and calm,

Till he should make for her his name and fame,

Waiting – O Christ, how keen this cuts! – large-eyed,

With Baby Charley till her husband make

For her and him a poet’s name and fame.’

– Read me,” he cried, and rose, and stamped his foot

Impatiently at Heaven, “read me this,”

(Putting th’ inquiry full in the face of God)

“Why can we poets dream us beauty, so,

But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can I

Make, aye, create this fervid throbbing June

Out of the chill, chill matter of my soul,

Yet cannot make a poorest penny-loaf

Out of this same chill matter, no, not one

For Mary though she starved upon my breast?”

And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed,

And, late, just when his heart leaned o’er

The very edge of breaking, fain to fall,

God sent him sleep.

There came his room-fellow,

Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream,

Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell on

The poem in big-hearted comic rage,

Quick folded, thrust in envelope, addressed

To him, the critic-god, that sitteth grim

And giant-grisly on the stone causeway

That leadeth to his magazine and fame.

Him, by due mail, the little Dream of June

Encountered growling, and at unawares

Stole in upon his poem-battered soul

So that he smiled, – then shook his head upon ‘t

– Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last,

As one that deadly sinned against his will,

He writ upon the margin of the Dream

A wondrous, wondrous word that in a day

Did turn the fleeting song to very bread,

– Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept,

And Mary slept with happy drops a-gleam

Upon long lashes of her serene eyes

From twentieth reading of her poet’s news

Quick-sent, “O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power,

And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine,

And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love,

To clothe thy holy loveliness withal,

And I will dream thee here to live by me,

Thee and my little man thou hold’st at breast,

– Come, Name, come, Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart’s feet!”

June Poems That Rhyme

Rhyming poetry can add a musical quality to the already magical and enchanting qualities of June. Here are some poems about June with rhyme to capture the spirit of the season.

1. A June Night Poem

       by Emma Lazarus

Ten o’clock: the broken moon

Hangs not yet a half hour high,

Yellow as a shield of brass,

In the dewy air of June,

Poised between the vaulted sky

And the ocean’s liquid glass.

Earth lies in the shadow still;

Low black bushes, trees, and lawn

Night’s ambrosial dews absorb;

Through the foliage creeps a thrill,

Whispering of yon spectral dawn

And the hidden climbing orb.

Higher, higher, gathering light,

Veiling with a golden gauze

All the trembling atmosphere,

See, the rayless disk grows white!

Hark, the glittering billows pause!

Faint, far sounds possess the ear.

Elves on such a night as this

Spin their rings upon the grass;

On the beach the water-fay

Greets her lover with a kiss;

Through the air swift spirits pass,

Laugh, caress, and float away.

Shut thy lids and thou shalt see

Angel faces wreathed with light,

Mystic forms long vanished hence.

Ah, too fine, too rare, they be

For the grosser mortal sight,

And they foil our waking sense.

Yet we feel them floating near,

Know that we are not alone,

Though our open eyes behold

Nothing save the moon’s bright sphere,

In the vacant heavens shown,

And the ocean’s path of gold.

2. June’s Picture

       by Annette Wynne 

Let me paint June’s picture—first I take some gold,

Fill the picture full of sun, all that it can hold;

Save some for the butterflies, darting all around,

And some more for buttercups here upon the ground;

Take a lot of baby-blue—this—to make the sky,

With a lot of downy white—soft clouds floating by;

Cover all the ground with green, hang it from the trees,

Sprinkle it with shiny white, neatly as you please;

So—a million daisies spring up everywhere,

Surely you can see now what is in the air!

Here’s a thread of silver—that’s a little brook

To hide in dainty places where only children look.

Next, comes something—guess—it grows

Among green hedges—it’s the rose!

Brown for a bird to sing a song,

Brown for a road to walk along.

Then add some happy children to the fields and flowers and skies,

And so you have June’s picture here before your eyes.

3. The Tent of Noon

       by Bliss Carman

Behold, now, where the pageant of high June

Halts in the glowing noon!

The trailing shadows rest on plain and hill;

The bannered hosts are still,

While over forest crown and mountain head

The azure tent is spread.

The song is hushed in every woodland throat;

Moveless the lilies float;

Even the ancient ever-murmuring sea

Sighs only fitfully;

The cattle drowse in the field-corner’s shade;

Peace on the world is laid.

It is the hour when Nature’s caravan,

That bears the pilgrim Man

Across the desert of uncharted time

To his far hope sublime,

Rests in the green oasis of the year,

As if the end drew near.

Ah, traveller, hast thou naught of thanks or praise

For these fleet halcyon days?—

No courage to uplift thee from despair

Born with the breath of prayer?

Then turn thee to the lilied field once more!

God stands in his tent door.

4. Why Was June Made?

       by Annette Wynne

Why was June made?—Can you guess?

June was made for happiness!

Even the trees

Know this, and the breeze

That loves to play

Outside all day,

And never is too bold or rough,

Like March’s wind, but just a tiny blow’s enough;

And all the fields know

This is so—

June was not made for wind and stress,

June was made for happiness;

Little happy daisy faces

Show it in the meadow places,

And they call out when I pass,

“Stay and play here in the grass.”

June was made for happy things,

Boats and flowers, stars and wings,

Not for wind and stress,

June was made for happiness!

5. When The Brow of June

       by Emily Pfeiffer

When the brow of June is crowned by the rose

And the air is faint and fain with her breath,

Then the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes.

The Earth hath rest and forgetteth her woes

As she watcheth the cradle of Love and Death,

When the brow of June is crowned by the rose.

O Love and Death, who are counted for foes,

She sees you twins of one mind and faith —

The Earth at rest from her long birth-throes.

You are twins to the mother who sees and knows;

‘Let them strive and thrive together,’ she saith,—

When the brow of June is crowned by the rose.

They strive, and Love his brother outgrows,

But for strength and beauty he travaileth

On the Earth at rest from her long birth-throes.

And still when his passionate heart o’erflows

Death winds about him a bridal wreath,—

As the brow of June is crowned by the rose!

So the bands of Death true lovers enclose,

For Love and Death are as Sword and Sheath,

When the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes.

They are Sword and Sheath, they are Life and its Shows

Which lovers have grace to see beneath,

When the brow of June is crowned by the rose

And the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes.

6. June Dreams, in January (2)

       by Sidney Lanier

So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon

That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,

In languid palpitation, half a-swoon

With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;

“Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale

As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips

Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale

And then as red as any virgin’s lips.

“O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased,

– Faint Odor from the day-flower’s crushing born,

– Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East

That cannot see her lord again till morn:

“And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky

To catch the sacred raining of star-light:

And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die,

Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night:

“And short-breath’d winds, under yon gracious moon

Doing mild errands for mild violets,

Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June

What aimless way the odor-current sets:

“And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells,

Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays,

Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles,

Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze,

“Or lying like young lilies in a lake

About the great white Lotus of the moon,

Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake

Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon,

“Or budding thick about full open stars,

Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices,

Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars,

Or trim-set in quaint gardener’s fantasies:

“And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves,

And whispered confidence of dark and green,

And murmurs in old moss about old eaves,

And tinklings floating over water-sheen!”

June Poems for Kids

Summer is a time of wonder and adventure for kids, and there are many poems that capture the joy of June from a child’s perspective. Here are some June poems for children that are perfect for kids to read and enjoy.

1. A Song of Tthe Sixth Month

       by William Stanley Braithwaite

Glad, mad, and a bit sad too —

Face o’ the rose in the eye of the sun;

God has dreamed and his work is done —

June’s on the world, heigh-ho!

See how the greenish shadow raises

Patterns on the sun’s flood of golden blazes

Round a pink, slim girl knee-deep in daisies.

What is this slow full sense of Time!

This great armada of chirp and song,

That are as a host of sails that throng

Across June’s tidal sea of rhyme.

Buttercups and daisies, sing low, sing high —

Age is a fable, death is a lie —

And June’s too good to tell us why!

2. “June” Sang The River

       by Annette Wynne

“June” sang the river, “June” sang the sky;

“June” sang the trees and the flowers together,

“June” sang the meadow-lark, “June” sing I;

June is the month of singing weather.

June is the time for swinging clover,

Time for the rumbling old fat bee-rover,

Time for the sky to bend sweetly over,

And whisper, “Earth dear, from the East to the West

You are lovely all seasons—but in June far the best!”

3. June

       by Ada A. Mosher

Ah, transient fall as tender were the flowers

You flung within the lap of this old clime,

And fair as fleeting were thy sweet-faced hours,

The children beautiful you bore old Time.

4. June Is Such a Bonny Time

       by Annette Wynne

June is such a bonny time—

Bird and flower weather—

Time for song and love and rime—

Time to be together;

Time for hoops and sails and wings,

Butterflies and happy things.

5. The Harebells Ring

       by Annette Wynne

The harebells ring on every lea,

They call the blue bells oversea,

And all the world takes up the tune,

Skies and earth, it’s June, June, June!

6. Harebells in June

       by Annette Wynne

Ring slender bells an elfin tune,

To summon all the elves of June;

It’s time to make the plans for summertime,

Chime, little bells, along the river, chime;

And let me lie with ear close to the ground,

To hear the witching sound.

Ring slender bells this bonny weather,

Call all the elves of June together.

7. June

       by Dollie Radford

The skies are blue

O’er the meadow now,

And the leaves are new

On the willow-bough,

While the glad earth sings

In one joyous tune,

All the happy things

Of the happy June.

Oh the joyous time

Of the fresh sweet June,

And the happy rhyme

That must die so soon;

But again – again –

When the years are young,

Will the sweet refrain

Be sung  – be sung.

June Poems for Adults

June is a time of year that inspires people of all ages, including adults. From love to nature to the solstice, these June poems for adults explore the depth and complexity of the season.

1. June Rain

       by Richard Aldington

Hot, a griffin’s mouth of flame,

The sun rasped with his golden tongue

The city streets, till men and walls shrivelled;

The dusty air stagnated.

At the third noon a wind rippled,

A wide sea silently breaking;

A thick veil of rain-drops

Hid the sun and the hard blue.

A grey garment of rain,

Cold as hoar frost in April,

Enwrapped us.

2. In June and Gentle Oven

       by Anne Wilkinson

In June and gentle oven

Summer kingdoms simmer

As they come

And through flower and leaf and love


Their sweetest juice.

No wind at all

On the wide green world

Where fields go stroll-

ing by

And in and out

An adder of a stream

Parts the daisies

On a small Ontario farm.

And where, in the curve of meadow,

Lovers, touching, lie,

A church of grass stands up

And walls them, holy, in.

Fabulous the insects

Stud the air

Or walk on running water,

Klee-drawn saints

And bright as angels are.

Honeysuckle here

Is more than bees can bear

And time turns pale

And stops to catch the breath

And lovers slip their flesh

And light as pollen

Play on treble water

Till bodies reappear

And a shower of sun

To dry their langour.

Then two in one the lovers lie

And peel the skin of summer

With their teeth

And suck its marrow from a kiss

So charged with grace

The tongue, all knowing

Holds the sap of June

Aloof from seasons, flowing.

3. June Thunder

       by Louis MacNeice

The Junes were free and full, driving through tiny

Roads, the mudguards brushing the cow parsley,

Through fields of mustard and under boldly embattled

Mays and chestnuts

Or between beeches verdurous and voluptuous

Or where broom and gorse beflagged the chalkland –

All the flare and gusto of the unenduring

Joys of a season

Now returned but I note as more appropriate

To the mature mood impending thunder

With an indigo sky and the garden hushed except for

The treetops moving.

Then the curtains in my room blow suddenly inward,

The shrubbery rustles, birds fly heavily homeward,

The white flowers fade to nothing on the trees and rain comes

Down like a drop scene.

Now there comes catharsis, the cleansing downpour

breaking the blossoms of our over dated fancies

Our old sentimentality and whimsicality

Loves of the morning.

Blackness at half-past eight, the night’s precursor,

Clouds like falling masonry and lightning’s lavish

Annunciation, the sword of the mad archangel

Flashed from the scabbard.

If only you would come and dare the crystal

Rampart of the rain and the bottomless moat of thunder,

If only now you would come I should be happy

Now if now only.

4. Dusk in June

       by Sara Teasdale

Evening, and all the birds

In a chorus of shimmering sound

Are easing their hearts of joy

For miles around.

The air is blue and sweet,

The few first stars are white,–

Oh let me like the birds

Sing before night.

5. June

       by Margaret Deland

Upon the breast of smiling June

Roses and lilies lie,

And round her yet is faint perfume

Of violets, just gone by;

Green is her gown, with ‘broidery

Of blossoming meadow grass,

That ripples like a flowing sea

When winds and shadows pass.

Her breast is belted by the blue

Of succory, like the sky,

And purple heart’s-ease clasp her too,

And larkspur growing high;

Laced is her bodice green with vines,

And dew the sun has kissed,

Jewels her scarf that faintly shines,

In folds of morning mist!

The buttercups are fringes fair

Around her small white feet,

And on the radiance of her hair

Fall cherry-blossoms sweet;

The dark laburnum’s chains of gold

She twists about her throat:

Perched on her shoulder, blithe and bold,

The brown thrush sounds his note!

And blue of the far dappled sky

That shows at warm, still noon,

Shines in her softly smiling eye.

Oh! Who’s so sweet as June?

6. June

       by Anonymous



Having fun

Enjoying life


Flaming June Poems

“Flaming June” is a phrase that evokes the heat and passion of summer, and there are many poems that capture this fiery energy. Here are some Flaming June poems that celebrate the intensity and vitality of the season.

1. Flaming June

       by Alan Buckley

but this is a winter spate. Our forty-footer’s

hurried down the Thames from Swinford reach.

At King’s we steer to the lock, then slide into

its chamber, moonishly still, a semi-colon;

the keeper sets his back to the balance beam,

captures us in a pause of cropped grass,

flowers bedded in squares. Behind a screen

of trees, the feral river charges the weir

then bursts back into view, dark and foaming.

It surges hard, pummels the lower gates.

The man strolls past us, a limited god

in short sleeves, sturdy trousers. You’ll need

to give it some. Keep both hands on the tiller.

He spins the sluice-wheels. Gently, we descend.

2. Flaming Inspiration

       by Maurine Killough

oh, june, you are a figment of imagination

your billowing ripples beckoning

slumber sex and labial impressions

i want to be lost in your folds

lovely june, you are a Christmas fire in summer

glazing the eyes of hot toddies with caribbean sunsets

i can feel your heat from here

i want to crawl into your swallow, float my palm along your orange drapes

dissolve in your marigold madness

and caress the island of your third eye

you sat down for him

issued that suffering moan

then deep pocketed your eyes

and melted into his chariot of fire

you arbitrarily give us your flame

and we blaze in your fire

the poet writes, the artist draws, the actor delivers

and the musician plays

oh june, your paint is only skin deep

but your superficial love burns eternal in our desire

a classic player of tricks

your hearth is burning


did you hide from him, you clementine, you citrus Tart?

the way you play hide and seek with the rest?

you held the power

to rise from the chair of fantasy

step onto your own

and leave empty his marble throne

escaping in your sleep

sweeping away in your oleander boat

and dreaming of the blazing sea

until you dreamed yourself awake

and flamed the fire

of the artist’s desire

You opened your world to him

spread your oasis wide

and let him drink

your orange flame …

without you

just the echo of color

on a store-bought canvas

3. June Night

       by Sara Teasdale

Oh Earth, you are too dear to-night,

How can I sleep while all around

Floats rainy fragrance and the far

Deep voice of the ocean that talks to the ground?

Oh Earth, you gave me all I have,

I love you, I love you,— oh what have I

That I can give you in return —

Except my body after I die?

4. A June-Tide Echo

       by Amy Levy

In the long, sad time, when the sky was grey,

And the keen blast blew through the city drear,

When delight had fled from the night and the day,

My chill heart whispered, “June will be here!

“June with its roses a-sway in the sun,

Its glory of green on mead and tree.”

Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done,

June-tide, and never a joy for me

Is it so much of the gods that I pray?

Sure craved man never so slight a boon!

To be glad and glad in my heart one day —

One perfect day of the perfect June.

Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave;

Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air.

This is the boon of the gods that I crave —

To be glad, as the music and night were fair.

For once, for one fleeting hour, to hold

The fair shape the music that rose and fell

Revealed and concealed like a veiling fold;

To catch for an instant the sweet June spell.

For once, for one hour, to catch and keep

The sweet June secret that mocks my heart;

Now lurking calm, like a thing asleep,

Now hither and thither with start and dart.

Then the sick, slow grief of the weary years,

The slow, sick grief and the sudden pain;

The long days of labour, the nights of tears —

No more these things would I hold in vain.

I would hold my life as a thing of worth;

Pour praise to the gods for a precious thing.

Lo, June in her fairness is on earth,

And never a joy does the niggard bring.

5. A Day in June

       by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays;

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature’s palace;

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o’errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,

‘Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For our couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer’s lowing,

And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,

Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

‘Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,

‘Tis for the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

The soul partakes the season’s youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep ‘neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

6. June in The City

       by John Reed

This rock-rimmed Northern land is ringed with bloom;

Each night the warm sky hovers soft and low

Above young strolling lovers — and I know

That on far beaches drives the sea-salt spume.

Oh for a strength of flowering to thrust

Green leaves up through this iron city street!

Brown thrushes in the twilight, and a sweet

clean wind to sweep the dim stars free from dust!

7 ‘Flaming June’

       by A. P. Herbert

June, gentle June, of whom the crooners croon,

Sweet month of silk, of salmon, and the swoon;

June, what a chance you had—to be your best,

The fighting friend of Freedom in the West!

You could have said ‘I’ll give them placid seas,

Permitting nothing but an off-shore breeze;

Blue days for bombers on the Calais beat,

And not a cloud below three thousand feet;

Comfort for soldiers—safety for the tar:

May has her medals—June shall wear a Star!’

Instead, sweet June, how sadly you have sinned!

Henceforth, you little slut, your name is Wind,

Hail, Gale or Thunder, Cold or Cloud, or Sleet.

June, you’re a quisling; June, you are a cheat.

If there is any trick you’ve left undone

That helps the enemy, pray tell me one?

And yet, in spite of your obscene display,

Oh, what a month—a winner all the way!

This is the song that History will croon:

‘How we Defied the Traitor, General June!’

Haiku June Poems

Haiku is simply a traditional Japanese form of poetry that captures the essence of a moment in nature. These June poems by Haiku reflect the beauty and serenity of summer, from the chirping of crickets to the rustling sound of leaves in the breeze.

1. June Collection

       by Andrea Dietrich

Skies of azure blue

Honey suckle vines seeming . . .

To climb to heaven

King sun shines down as

Musk melons ripen in fields . . .

Mari golds wear crowns

With easy labor

Month six gives birth to summer . . .

Dusk sweetly lingers

2. Ichthys June 24

       by Brian Strand


Light through darkness spills

A verdant sylvan idyll-

Night concedes the day

3. June

       by Paula Goldsmith

The best month is June

Flowers in the afternoon

Birds singing in tune.

4. Skies

       by Sara Kendrick

Skies partly cloudy

Rain sometimes, lightning, june’s sog….

Bee balm’s blooms explode

Old fashioned canas

Called bird of paradise blooms….

Lemon daylilies

Fern laced fennel’s gold

Begins to show towering highs….

Oregano blooms

Rain lilies’ blossoms

Multiply from two days’ rain….

Pink gladiolus dream

5. June Bugs

       by Anonymous

Late arrival

Everyone asleep

Quiet as can be

Fat june bugs flutter

In the dark of night

All too excited

Ignoring this swarm

Of June bugs

We put up our tent

One of us filling

His pockets

For tomorrow’s bait

Clear skies and waters

When sun rises

Fishing lines are cast

6. Strawberry Moon

       by Patricia L. Cisco

Full strawberry moon,

ushers in hot days of June,

high tides fill the dune,

hot sun rising soon,

fishing in the afternoon,

whistling my own tune!

7. One Day of June

       by David Fox

Beautiful sunrise

on a warm June morning.

I wait for day’s start.

Rosy colored sky

on a cool summer evening.

Glorious sunset.

Final Thoughts

As we encounter the end of this article on June poems, let us take a moment to appreciate the beauty and warmth of this month.

June is a time when nature comes alive, and the world is awash with colors and sounds. It is a time of growth, renewal, and joy, and poets throughout history have celebrated its many wonders.

From the famous June poems of Shakespeare and Wordsworth to the playful and imaginative poems of children’s authors, poems for June capture the spirit of the season in all its glory.

So, let us embrace the magic of June and savor the poetry that celebrates this glorious time of year.

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