Who thinks of June’s first rose today?
Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes and rough bright hair will reach it down.
In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far
As are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town.
What’s little June to a great broken world with eyes gone
From too much looking on the face of grief, the face of dread?
Or what’s the broken word to June and
Of the small eager hand, the shining eyes, the rough bright head?
