Whence comes this mist of sweet perfume of fragrant blooming roses That fills the air at early dawn and after daylight closes, When through the day the song bird sings and in the night reposes? Tis June, the fairest month of all, bright June, the month of roses. The sky has changed its grayish hue for that of deepest azure, And fleecy clouds are floating o'er and dancing as in pleasure; While near these fairy clouds are seen great Alps of cloudland glory, Where sunbeams darting to and fro mount each lofty story, When comes this grandeur in the skies that in winter time reposes? In June, the fairest month of all, bright June, the month of roses. The trees spread out their leafy boughs, the meadows bloom with flowers; The air is cooled, the dust is laid by calm, refreshing showers; The sun is up at early morn __ his eyes he scarcely closes, For sunny June is with us now, fair June, the month of roses. The yellow rose blooms, the white, pink, red in prairie, field and garden, And for the number and variety seem to ask your pardon; Their rich perfume so fills the air, the world seems naught but roses; A rosy crown they've made for June, and crowned her Queen of Roses.
__Elva May Root.