JUNE, O thou magical, whimsical June, Blow with thy fragrance of breath through this rune Torrents of blossoms to darken the moon! Oft have I come unto thee in the past, Shaping my lips for the musical blast, Only to find thou wert gone, and my cry, Like a swift-fashioning cloud in the sky, Floated away with its fragments to die. Last night the moon was a blossom-blurred light, Last night the wind was a dead poppy's soul, Yet without sorrow I jilted the night And in a warm, crowded chapel I stole. Moons will look down through the blossoms again, Winds full as sweet will come after the rain, But this proud summit of youth comes no more: They that go shall not return by this door. Thirteen young ladies made lovely by roses? Nay, making lovely the roses they wore! Was there a girl (as the first chapter closes) Knew of the beauty she left at the door? Now they have passed to the rigid and narrow Path of our years, to the care and the task. Soon would they barter the kingdom of Pharaoh Just to wear youth for a day as a mask. Let us reopen the door they came through, Lest we forget all the glory they shed -- See that disdain at the splash of the dew, And that fine, sixteen-year toss of the head -- See that strong faith they will lose and regain Up through philosophies tangled with briers, Fashioned with sorrow and moulded with pain, Till they shall reach the invisible choirs. Here is a maid very winsome and fair: To-night she will look in her glass and prepare To fold up her girlhood in braids of her hair -- And O, I, a lover of beauty would hold The strands for a day in their freedom of old. Ye lovers with me -- let us lift up our glasses! Fair seventeen passes -- she passes -- she passes. She is gone to the bride and the mother -- and yet I sometimes think God has His hours of regret. June, O thou magical, whimsical June, Cease not to blow through this gypsical rune Torrents of blossoms to darken the moon! We, who walk down to the grave on each breath, Find all our triumphs are gateways to death. O, what a prodigal spender is Time! Here is a purse he is spending to-day: All this young blood with its tropical clime, All these slim throats with their lyrical chime, All these love chancels of brown and of gray -- All that is fairest he tosses away. Grief -- 'tis a moment's pure passion -- no more: What if they do not return by this door? Youth, the eternal, is waiting somewhere; Christ, the All-lovely, is evermore fair. There is in guardianship now of thy Lord All the lost treasures which Time hath outpoured. All the dead suns from their couches of fire Some day will flame at His whim and desire. Some day the long-sleeping lilies will rise Under the warmth of the love in His eyes. Then shall we see them again in pure white, Fair, even fair as these lilies to-night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE WOMAN'S GENITALS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE WOMEN WITH FABLED HAIR by MADELINE DEFREES NOTES FOR THE FIRST LINE OF A SPANISH POEM by JAMES GALVIN THE AUDACIOUS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE CORNUCOPIA OF RED AND GREEN COMFITS by AMY LOWELL LEAVES OF A MAGAZINE by MARIANNE MOORE A LITTLE WHILE by SARA TEASDALE |