When the Brow of June / Emily Pfeiffer

When the Brow of June

When the brow of June is crowned by the rose
    And the air is faint and fain with her breath,
Then the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes.

The Earth hath rest and forgetteth her woes
    As she watcheth the cradle of Love and Death,
When the brow of June is crowned by the rose.

O Love and Death, who are counted for foes,
    She sees you twins of one mind and faith —
The Earth at rest from her long birth-throes.

You are twins to the mother who sees and knows;
    ‘Let them strive and thrive together,’ she saith,—
When the brow of June is crowned by the rose.

They strive, and Love his brother outgrows,
    But for strength and beauty he travaileth
On the Earth at rest from her long birth-throes.

And still when his passionate heart o’erflows
    Death winds about him a bridal wreath,—
As the brow of June is crowned by the rose!

So the bands of Death true lovers enclose,
    For Love and Death are as Sword and Sheath,
When the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes.

They are Sword and Sheath, they are Life and its Shows
    Which lovers have grace to see beneath,
When the brow of June is crowned by the rose
And the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes.

~~
Emily Pfeiffer (1827-1890)
from Sonnets and Songs, 1880

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Emily Pfeiffer biography

Garden Wireless / Carl Sandburg

Garden Wireless

How many feet ran with sunlight, water and air?

What little devils shaken of laughter, cramming their little ribs with chuckles,

Fixed this lone red tulip, a woman’s mouth of passion kisses, a nun’s mouth of sweet thinking, here topping a straight line of green, a pillar stem?

Who hurled this bomb of red caresses?— nodding balloon-film shooting its wireless every fraction of a second these June days:
                                Love me before I die;
                                               Love me — love me now.

Jason Zhang, Tulip in front yard of Peace Catholic School, 2018. CC 1.0, Wikimedia Commons.

~~
Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)
from Corhhuskers, 1918

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]

Carl Sandburg biography

My Father / Ann Taylor

My Father

Who took me from my mother's arms,
And, smiling at her soft alarms,
Show'd me the world and nature's charms?
                                        My Father.

Who made me feel and understand
The wonders of the sea and land,
And mark, through all, the Maker's hand?
                                         My Father.

Who climb'd with me, the mountain's height,
And watch'd my look of dread delight,
While rose the glorious orb of light?
                                        My Father

Who, from each flower and verdant stalk,
Gather'd a honey'd store of talk,
To fill the long, delightful walk?
                                        My Father.

Not on an insect would he tread;
Nor strike the stinging nettle dead;
Who taught at once my heart and head?
                                        My Father

Who wrote upon that heart the line
Religion grav'd on Virtue's shrine,
To make the human race divine?
                                        My Father.

Who taught my early mind to know
The God from whom all blessings flow,
Creator of all things below?
                                        My Father.

Who, now, in pale and placid light
Of mem'ry gleams upon my sight,
Bursting the sepulchre of night?
                                        My Father.

Oh! teach me still the Christian plan;
Thy practice with thy precept ran:
Nor yet desert me now a man,
                                        My Father.

Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice,
With charms of thy angelic voice,
Still prompt the motive and the choice,
                                        My Father.

For yet remains a little space,
Till I shall meet thee face to face,
And not, as now, in vain embrace
                                        My Father.

Soon, and before the mercy seat,
Spirits made perfect – we shall meet;
Thee with what transport shall I greet,
                                        My Father!

 

~~

Ann Taylor (1782-1866)
from Original Poems for Infant Minds, 1834

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Sanket Mehta, Father and Son, 2014. CC BY 3.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Ann Taylor biography

A Night in June / Madison Cawein

A Night in June

I

White as a lily moulded of Earth's milk
    That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;
    Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,
Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:
Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade
    The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;
    Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,
Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.
And when the western sky seemed some weird land,
    And night a witching spell at whose command
    One sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deep
The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;
    Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,
    And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.


II

There where they part, the porch's steps are strewn
    With wind-blown petals of the purple vine;
    Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine
Cleaves the white moonlight; and like some calm rune
Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;
    And now a meteor draws a lilac line
    Across the welkin, as if God would sign
The perfect poem of this night of June.
The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,
    Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass
    Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;
And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,
    The dewdrop trembles on the peony,
    As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.

~~

Madison Cawein (1865-1914)
from Kentucky Poems, 1903

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Madison Cawein biography

June Thunder / Louis MacNeice

June Thunder

The Junes were free and full, driving through tiny
Roads, the mudguards brushing the cowparsley,
Through fields of mustard and under boldly embattled
Mays and chestnuts

Or between beeches verdurous and voluptuous
Or where broom and gorse beflagged the chalkland –
All the flare and gusto of the unenduring
Joys of a season

Now returned but I note as more appropriate
To the maturer mood impending thunder
With an indigo sky and the garden hushed except for
The treetops moving.

Then the curtains in my room blow suddenly inward,
The shrubbery rustles, birds fly heavily homeward,
The white flowers fade to nothing on the trees and rain comes
Down like a dropscene.

Now there comes catharsis, the cleansing downpour
Breaking the blossoms of our overdated fancies
Our old sentimentality and whimsicality
Loves of the morning.

Blackness at half-past eight, the night’s precursor,
Clouds like falling masonry and lightning’s lavish
Annunciation, the sword of the mad archangel
Flashed from the scabbard.

If only you would come and dare the crystal
Rampart of the rain and the bottomless moat of thunder,
If only now you would come I should be happy
Now if now only.

~~
Louis Macneice (1907-1963)
from The Earth Compels, 1938

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Louis MacNeice biography

All in June / W.H. Davies

All in June

A week ago I had a fire
To warm my feet, my hands and face;
Cold winds, that never make a friend,
Crept in and out of every place.

Today the fields are rich in grass,
And buttercups in thousands grow;
I'll show the world where I have been —
With gold-dust seen on either shoe.

Till to my garden back I come,
Where bumble-bees for hours and hours
Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,
To wriggle out of hollow flowers.

~~
W.H. Davies (1871-1940)
from The Soul's Destroyer, and other poems, 1905 

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

W.H. Davies biography

June / Edmund Spenser

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579: 

June. Ægloga Sexta.

ARGUMENT. This Æglogue is wholly vowed to the complayning of Colins ill successe in his love. For being (as is aforesaid) enamoured of a country lasse, Rosalind, and having (as seemeth) founde place in her heart, he lamenteth to his deare frend Hobbinoll, that he is nowe forsaken unfaithfully, and in his steede Menalcas, another shepheard, received disloyally. And this is the whole argument of this Æglogue.

HOBBINOL.  COLIN CLOUTE.

    Hob. Lo, Collin, here the place whose pleasaunt syte
From other shades hath weand my wandring mynde.
Tell me, what wants me here to worke delyte?
The simple ayre, the gentle warbling wynde,
So calme, so coole, as no where else I fynde,
The grassye ground with daintye daysies dight,
The bramble bush, where byrds of every kynde
To the waters fall their tunes attemper right.

    Col. O happy Hobbinoll! I blesse thy state,
That Paradise hast found, whych Adam lost.
Here wander may thy flock, early or late,
Withouten dreade of wolves to bene ytost:
Thy lovely layes here mayst thou freely boste.
But I, unhappy man, whom cruell Fate
And angry gods pursue from coste to coste,
Can nowhere fynd to shroude my lucklesse pate.

    Hob. Then if by me thou list advised be,
Forsake the soyle that so doth the bewitch;
Leave me those hilles, where harbrough nis to see,
Nor holybush, nor brere, nor winding witche,
And to the dales resort, where shepheards ritch,
And fruictfull flocks, bene every where to see.
Here no night ravens lodge, more black then pitche,
Nor elvish ghosts, nor gastly owles doe flee.

But frendly Faeries, met with many Graces,
And lightfote Nymphes, can chace the lingring night
With heydeguyes and trimly trodden traces,
Whilst systers nyne, which dwell on Parnasse hight,
Doe make them musick for their more delight;
And Pan himselfe, to kisse their christall faces,
Will pype and daunce, when Phœbe shineth bright:
Such pierlesse pleasures have we in these places.

    Col. And I, whylst youth and course of carelesse yeeres
Did let me walke withouten lincks of love,
In such delights did joy amongst my peeres:
But ryper age such pleasures doth reprove;
My fancye eke from former follies move
To stayed steps: for time in passing weares,
(As garments doen, which wexen old above)
And draweth newe delightes with hoary heares.

Tho couth I sing of love, and tune my pype
Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made;
Tho would I seeke for queene apples unrype,
To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade
Dight gaudy girlonds was my comen trade,
To crowne her golden locks; but yeeres more rype,
And losse of her, whose love as lyfe I wayd,
Those weary wanton toyes away dyd wype.

    Hob. Colin, to heare thy rymes and roundelayes,
Which thou were wont on wastfull hylls to singe,
I more delight then larke in sommer dayes:
Whose echo made the neyghbour groves to ring,
And taught the byrds, which in the lower spring
Did shroude in shady leaves from sonny rayes,
Frame to thy songe their chereful cheriping,
Or hold theyr peace, for shame of thy swete layes.

I sawe Calliope wyth Muses moe,
Soone as thy oaten pype began to sound,
Theyr yvory luyts and tamburins forgoe,
And from the fountaine, where they sat around,
Renne after hastely thy silver sound.
But when they came where thou thy skill didst showe,
They drewe abacke, as halfe with shame confound,
Shepheard to see, them in theyr art outgoe.

    Col. Of Muses, Hobbinol, I conne no skill:
For they bene daughters of the hyghest Jove,
And holden scorne of homely shepheards quill.
For sith I heard that Pan with Phœbus strove,
Which him to much rebuke and daunger drove,
I never lyst presume to Parnasse hyll,
But, pyping lowe in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please my selfe, all be it ill.

Nought weigh I, who my song doth prayse or blame,
Ne strive to winne renowne, or passe the rest:
With shepheard sittes not followe flying fame,
But feede his flocke in fields where falls hem best.
I wote my rymes bene rough, and rudely drest:
The fytter they my carefull case to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And poore my piteous plaints out in the same.

The god of shepheards, Tityrus, is dead,
Who taught me, homely as I can, to make.
He, whilst he lived, was the soveraigne head
Of shepheards all that bene with love ytake:
Well couth he wayle his woes, and lightly slake
The flames which love within his heart had bredd,
And tell us mery tales, to keepe us wake,
The while our sheepe about us safely fedde.

Nowe dead he is, and lyeth wrapt in lead,
(O why should Death on hym such outrage showe?)
And all hys passing skil with him is fledde,
The fame whereof doth dayly greater growe.
But if on me some little drops would flowe
Of that the spring was in his learned hedde,
I soone would learne these woods to wayle my woe,
And teache the trees their trickling teares to shedde.

Then should my plaints, causd of discurtesee,
As messengers of all my painfull plight,
Flye to my love, where ever that she bee,
And pierce her heart with poynt of worthy wight,
As shee deserves, that wrought so deadly spight.
And thou, Menalcas, that by trecheree
Didst underfong my lasse to wexe so light,
Shouldest well be knowne for such thy villanee.

But since I am not as I wish I were,
Ye gentle shepheards, which your flocks do feede,
Whether on hylls, or dales, or other where,
Beare witnesse all of thys so wicked deede;
And tell the lasse, whose flowre is woxe a weede,
And faultlesse fayth is turned to faithlesse fere,
That she the truest shepheards hart made bleede
That lyves on earth, and loved her most dere.

    Hob. O carefull Colin! I lament thy case:
Thy teares would make the hardest flint to flowe.
Ah, faithlesse Rosalind, and voide of grace,
That art the roote of all this ruthfull woe!
But now is time, I gesse, homeward to goe:
Then ryse, ye blessed flocks, and home apace,
Least night with stealing steppes doe you forsloe,
And wett your tender lambes that by you trace.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edmund Spenser biography

June / Rebecca Hey

June

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.

~~
Rebecca Hey (1797-1867)

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Rebecca Hey biography

June's featured poem

 

The Penny Blog's featured poem for June 2022:

In June and Gentle Oven, by Anne Wilkinson

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2012/06/june-gentle-oven.html

Penny's Top 20 / May 2022

              

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in May 2022:

  1.  June Rain, Richard Aldington

  2.  At the Gates of Dawn, George J. Dance

  3.  The Flute of Spring, Bliss Carman

  4.  Skating, William Wordsworth

  5.  May and the Poets, Leigh Hunt
  6.  Spring Again, George J. Dance
  7.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens

  8.  May Night, Sara Teasdale
  9.  Ode, Composed on May Morning, William Wordsworth
10.  Afternoon on a Hill, Edna St. Vincent Millay

11.  May, Christina Rossetti
12.  It Is Not Always May, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
13.  Maye, Edmund Spenser
14.  Bird Cage, Hector de Saint-Denis Garneau
15.  A Morning Song (for the First Day of Spring), Eleanor Farjeon 
16.  My Mother, Ann Taylor
17.  Spring, R.

18.  'Tis May Now in New England, Bliss Carman
19.  May, Rebecca Hey

20. Moonlight Alert, Yvor Winters

Source: Blogger, "Stats"