June is a Poem...we live each year

Flaming June (1895) by Frederic Leighton

The warm, summery days of June instill within me a sense of decadent indolence. And so, I lazily approach this post by simply gathering together a bouquet of wonderful poems by famous poets of the past and illustrating them with some appropriately summer-tinged paintings. Two of the poems are by American poet, James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916,) who seemed to have a particular penchant for voluptuous verse celebrating the month of June. I also include a lovely one by American poet, Sara Teasdale (1884-1933,) and one by Welsh poet, Henry William Davies (1871-1940,) who spent some time "hoboing" around the United Kingdom and the United States, which put him directly in touch with the great out-of-doors and the pleasures of early summer.

Bauerngarten mit Sonnenblumen (1907) by Gustav Klimt

When June is Here

   by 
James Whitcomb Riley

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.

Dusk in June

   by 
Sara Teasdale

Evening Song by Sir George Clausen (1852-1944)

Evening, and all the birds
In a chorus of shimmering sound
Are easing their hearts of joy
For miles around.

The air is blue and sweet,
The few first stars are white,--
Oh let me like the birds
Sing before night.

June

   by 
James Whitcomb Riley

Queenly month of indolent repose!
I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume,
As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom
I nestle like a drowsy child and doze
The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws
The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom
And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom
Before thy listless feet. The lily blows
A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade;
And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear,
Thy harvest-armies gather on parade;
While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear,
A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:--
All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year!

Woman With a Parasol (1875) by Claude Monet

All in June

   by 
William Henry Davies

A week ago I had a fire
To warm my feet, my hands and face;
Cold winds, that never make a friend,
Crept in and out of every place.

Today the fields are rich in grass,
And buttercups in thousands grow;
I'll show the world where I have been--
With gold-dust seen on either shoe.

Till to my garden back I come,
Where bumble-bees for hours and hours
Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,
To wriggle out of hollow flowers.


Thanks for stopping by. Y'all come back, now!

Kate