Laden with gifts of your giving,
O summer of June!
With the rapturous idyl of living
In perfect attune;
With the sweetness of eve when it closes
A day of delight;
With the tremulous breath of the roses
Entrancing the night;
With the glow of your cardinal flowers
On lips that had paled;
And the coolness of silvery showers
For hands that had failed;
With geraniums vivid with fire
To wear on my breast,
Where the lilies had paled with desire
To bring to me rest;
With the joy that was born of your brightness
Still thrilling my soul,
And a heart whose bewildering lightness
I cannot control;
Ah! now that your idyl of living
Is over too soon,
What gifts can compare with your giving,
O summer of June?
Then a wraith of the winter said gently,
“I will not deceive;
Of the brightness you prize so intently
No trace shall I leave.
The glow of the cardinal flowers
Shall pass from the field,
And the softness of silvery showers
To ice be congealed;
The geraniums vivid with fire
Shall curl at the heart;
And the lily forget the desire
Its peace to impart;
Pale as the rose that is dying,
Your whitening cheek;
Faint as its tremulous sighing,
Words you would speak;
For a joy that was born of their brightness
I tremble with you,
When the gleam and the glory and lightness
Shall pass with the dew.
Ah! now that your idyl of living
Is over so soon,
What gifts will be left of your giving,
O summer of June?”