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,
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!
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
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
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.
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.
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.
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
Languorous breaths of meadow land
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
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.
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.
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!
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
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!
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.
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!”
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.
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,
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-
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,
And bright as angels are.
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.
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?
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 …
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
by Paula Goldsmith
The best month is June
Flowers in the afternoon
Birds singing in tune.
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….
Fern laced fennel’s gold
Begins to show towering highs….
Rain lilies’ blossoms
Multiply from two days’ rain….
Pink gladiolus dream
5. June Bugs
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
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
on a warm June morning.
I wait for day’s start.
Rosy colored sky
on a cool summer evening.
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.