If all the year were June, With tangled roses and the bumble-bee, In honeysuckle murmuring happily, In lilies deep asleep at noon; While sweet birds fill the sky, How could I die? If all the year were night, A tempest past, the pure moon shining clear, When all the glowing stars in heaven seem near The slumbering earth wrapped in still light; When pain is hushed in sleep, How could I weep? |