I

  June was not over
  Though past the full,
  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.