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.
Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer.
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing.
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now.
―
