AND what is so rare as a day in June? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days: 

Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune,

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 that reaches and towers, 

And grasping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.

Now is the high tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away,

Comes floating back with a ripply cheer 

Into every inlet, and creek, and bay:

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it;

We are happy now because God so wills it:

No matter how barren the past may have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well;

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell!

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing

That skies are blue and grass is growing.

James Russell Lowell.