And what is so rare as a day in June!
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
WE hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might.
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grasses and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there’s never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature’s palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And let’s his illumined being o’errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her next—
In the nice ear of nature, which song is best?
James Russell Lowell 1819-1891
American poet, critic, diplomat