June

I Gazed upon the glorious sky, And the green mountains round, And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, ’T were pleasant that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune, And groves a cheerful sound, The sexton’s hand, my grave to make, The rich, green mountain turf should break. A cell within the frozen mould, A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat— Away! I will not think of these— Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet, And be the damp mould gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest. There, through the long, long, summer hours The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird. And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come, from the village sent, Or song of maids beneath the moon With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothèd lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. I know that I no more should see The season’s glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light and bloom Should keep them lingering by my tomb. These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice.