June, the month of months, flowers and fruitage brings too. When green trees spread shadiest boughs, when each wild bird sings too.
There is but one May in the year, and sometimes May is wet and cold. There is but one May in the year before the year grows old.
Yet though it be the chilliest May with least of sun and most of showers, its wind and dew, its night and day, bring up the flowers.
I cannot tell you what it was, but this I know, it did but pass. It passed away with sunny May, like all sweet things it passed away, and left me old, and cold, and gray.
I cannot tell you how it was, but this I know, it came to pass upon a bright and sunny day when May was young. Ah, pleasant May!
