I.
June was not over Though past the fall, And the best of her roses Had yet to blow, When a man I know (But shall not discover, Since ears are dull, And time discloses)Turned him and said with a man's true air, Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 'twere,---``If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?''
II.
Well, dear, in-doors with you!
True! serene deadness Tries a man's temper.
What's in the blossom June wears on her bosom?
Can it clear scores with you?
Sweetness and redness.
_Eadem semper!_
Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!
If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightly By plucking the roses,---my June will do rightly.
III.
And after, for pastime, If June be refulgent With flowers in completeness, All petals, no prickles, Delicious as trickles Of wine poured at mass-time,---And choose One indulgent To redness and sweetness:
Or if, with experience of man and of spider, June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder, And stop the fresh film-work,---why, June will consider.
