Slow through the light and silent air,
Up climbs the smoke on its spiral stair—
The visible flight of some mortal's prayer;
The trees are in bloom with the flowers of frost,
But never a feathery leaf is lost;
The spring, descending, is caught and bound
Ere its silver feet can touch the ground;
So still is the air that lies, this morn,
Over the snow-cold fields forlorn,
'Tis as though Italy's heaven smiled
In the face of some bleak Norwegian wild;
And the heart in me sings—I know not why—
'Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky!
June in the sky! Ah, now I can see
The souls of roses about to be,
In gardens of heaven beckoning me,
Roses red-lipped, and roses pale,
Fanned by the tremulous ether gale!
Some of them climbing a window-ledge,
Some of them peering from wayside hedge,
As yonder, adrift on the aery stream,
Love drives his plumed and filleted team;
The Angel of Summer aloft I see,
And the souls of roses about to be!
And the heart in me sings—the heart knows why—
'Tis winter on earth, but June in the sky.