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.