In the last sweet hours of sunny June,
When summer was ringing her loudest chimes,
I stood in the shade in the sultry noon —
In the shade of the sweetly scented limes.
In the cloistered arch of the boughs above
The bees were singing their anthem low,
And the sough of the wind was soft with love,
As it blew on my heart — as I heard it blow.
A voice, that was sweeter than wind or bee,
Spoke there with such solemn earnestness,
That the face grew pale as it turned to me,
And the eyes looked dim in their deep distress:
"Oh, I could not live if love were gone,
And I cared for none till I cared for you —"
And the antiphon of the bees went on,
While the soughing wind in the branches blew.
Yet ever the roses died away,
The love was dying — the love was dead,
And the eyes that burned my heart that day,
Burnt all the flowers of my heart instead;
The lips that framed those changeless vows,
Gave careless greeting when next we met;
Yet the wind still sighed in the scented boughs,
And the bees were in the branches yet.
Since then, I have wondered many a time
If I really stood on that day in June,
And heard the bees in the fragrant lime,
With the soughing wind and my heart in tune.
Perhaps 'twas a dream, and the dreamer I!
And dreams are fickle, as all men know!
But whenever I smell the limes, I sigh,
And the wind is weird, when I hear it blow.