The ferny places gleam at morn,
    The dew drips off the leaves of corn;
    Along the brook a mist of white
    Fades as a kiss on lips of light;
    For, lo! the poet with his pipe
    Finds all these melodies are ripe!

    Far up within the cadenced June
    Floats, silver-winged, a living tune
    That winds within the morning's chime
    And sets the earth and sky to rhyme;
    For, lo! the poet, absent long,
    Breathes the first raptures of his song!

    Across the clover-blossoms, wet,
    With dainty clumps of violet,
    And wild red roses in her hair,
    There comes a little maiden fair.
    I cannot more of June rehearse--
    She is the ending of my verse.

    Ah, nay! For through perpetual days
    Of summer gold and filmy haze,
    When Autumn dies in Winter's sleet,
    I yet will see those dew-washed feet,
    And o'er the tracts of Life and Time
    They make the cadence for my rhyme.

More information on Eugene Field