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.