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.

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