The ferny places gleam at morn, br The dew drips off the leaves of corn; br Along the brook a mist of white br Fades as a kiss on lips of light; br For, lo! the poet with his pipe br Finds all these melodies are ripe! br br Far up within the cadenced June br Floats, silver-winged, a living tune br That winds within the morning's chime br And sets the earth and sky to rhyme; br For, lo! the poet, absent long, br Breathes the first raptures of his song! br br Across the clover-blossoms, wet, br With dainty clumps of violet, br And wild red roses in her hair, br There comes a little maiden fair. br I cannot more of June rehearse-- br She is the ending of my verse. br br Ah, nay! For through perpetual days br Of summer gold and filmy haze, br When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet, br I yet will see those dew-washed feet, br And o'er the tracts of Life and Time br They make the cadence for my rhyme.