And what is so rare as a day in June?
	Then, if ever, come perfect days;
	Then heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
	And over it softly her warm ear lays.

Lowell.    

	It is the month of June,
	The month of leaves and roses,
	When pleasant sights salute the eyes
	And pleasant scents the noses.

N. P. Willis.    

	June falls asleep upon her bier of flowers;
	In vain are dewdrops sprinkled o’er her,
	In vain would fond winds fan her back to life,
	Her hours are numbered on the floral dial.

Lucy Larcom.