# Littell's Living Age/Volume 138/Issue 1789/One June Morning

* ONE JUNE MORNING.
* I’m thinking now of a time, my friend —
* How many summers ago?
* In the morning's dewy prime, my friend,
* The June's young glow.
* That morn when I and the girl that died,
* Happy-hearted, tender-eyed,
* Sat side by side, sat side by side,
* And whispered low.
* Oh, those young June days!
* God never made aught so rare;
* Glamor of silvern haze,
* Fragrance in earth and air;
* Each bird a fountain of praise,
* Each flower a pray'r.
* And those hearts of ours, those hearts of ours!
* They were gladder than birds, they were sweeter than flowers;
* God looked not down that summer day
* On aught so tender and pure as they.
* O'er her work my darling bent,
* Lowly, lowly;
* Waited while the minutes went,
* Slowly, slowly.
* Ah, she knew I loved her well —
* Knew I had a tale to tell
* In her pinky ear.
* Why, ah why, are lovers shy,
* When maidens wait with downcast eye,
* And none is near?
* Ah, yes, there was not a thing but knew:
* The harebell tinkled its bell of blue,
* And looked away;
* But the saucy thrush on the bough that swung,
* Boldly he stared, and archly sung,
* And babbled the tale with wanton tongue
* To every bird on the spray.
* At length they came, a word or two —
* Simple words —
* Which none o'erheard but a bird or two —
* Flowers and birds.
* Slowly my darling raised her head;
* Never a word the sweet lips said,
* But the flower-cheeks blossomed a riper red,
* And the lashes were bright and a-tremble with tears,
* As two young souls in a long kiss met —
* A kiss whose melody haunts me yet
* Through all the years.
* And then, from his nest hard by,
* A lark upsprung,
* And quivered into the sky,
* And sung — and sung.
* The noisiest babbler held his breath,
* And the wind and the trees stood still as death,
* To list to the rapture deep and strong
* Of that skylark's song.
* Ah me, that strain, that trancèd strain!
* It shivered and died and shrilled again,
* In yearning and bliss and exquisite pain;
* It pierced my heart, it stung my brain,
* It waked the tears like summer rain,
* It made me long to die,
* Her hand to the last held fond and fast,
* And my rapt face turned to the sky.
* I heard the lark sing yesterday;
* From his grassy nest hard by,
* He quivered away in the morning grey;
* And lost himself in the sky.
* He sang once more that self-same air;
* But, ah, for the rapture, the vast despair,
* The passionate pain! it had passed from there;
* His heart was sere and dry.
* He never will sing again, ah no!
* As he sung in that summer of long ago.
* For the world grows old, grows old, my friend,
* And the Junes have turned so cold, my friend,
* And there lingers a smell of mould, my friend,
* And rotting leaves;
* And he thinks of those days of gold, my friend,
* And grieves, and grieves.
* Ah, never again will he sing such a strain
* Of passionate strength and glow,
* As the strain he sung when we both were young —
* How many summers ago?
* As the strain he sung in the blithe Junetide,
* When I and my darling sat side by side,
* I and the dear little heart that died —
* How many summers ago?
* Ah, fifty summers ago, my friend,
* Fifty summers ago!
* Good Words.Frederick Langbridge.