June Weather For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; Thrilling back over hills and valleys; With the deluge of summer it receives; A Chanted Calendar A Chanted Calendar And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,- Now is the high tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away No matter how barren the past may have been, That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near, That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by; For other couriers we should not lack, We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing! A Chanted Calendar JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. From "The Vision of Sir Launfal.” July * When the scarlet cardinal tells Her dream to the dragon fly, And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees, And murmurs a lullaby, It is July. When the tangled cobweb pulls The cornflower's cap awry, It is July. When the heat like a mist-veil floats, And the silver note in the streamlet's throat When the hours are so still that time 'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink It is July. SUSAN HARTLEY SWETT. * By courtesy of Dana Estes & Co. A Chanted August Calendar The sixth was August, being rich arrayed Forth by the lily hand, the which was crowned In August All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June, And whispered in its dream. The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster flowers look With eyes of tender gloom. The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute. There is no wind to stir the leaves, Only the querulous cricket grieves, A song of summer dead. WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. Autumn Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad, To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had yold. EDMUND SPENSER. From "The Faerie Queene." Sweet September O sweet September! thy first breezes bring ter, The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, And promise of exceeding joy hereafter. GEORGE ARNOLD. A Chanted Calendar |