When June Is Here

When June is here--what art have we to sing
  The whiteness of the lilies midst the green
  Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen
  Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening
  Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling
  Round winey juices oozing down between
  The peckings of the robin, while we lean
  In under-grasses, lost in marveling.
  Or the cool term of morning, and the stir
  Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks,
  The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir
  Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks
  Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks
  The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer.