Poems of Passion/But One

The year has but one June, dear friend; The year has but one June; And when that perfect month doth end, The robin's song, though loud, though long, Seems never quite in tune.

The rose, though still its blushing face By bee and bird is seen, May yet have lost that subtle grace— That nameless spell the winds know Which makes it garden's queen.

Life's perfect June, love's red, red rose, Have burned and bloomed for me. Though still youth's summer sunlight glows; Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find I have no heart for thee.