In early June the world of leaf and blade and flowers explodes, and every sunset is different.
June is the time for being in the world in new ways, for throwing off the cold and dark spots of life.
I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June.
It is the month of June, The month of leaves and roses, When pleasant sights salute the eyes, And pleasant scents the noses.
That's life (that's life), that's what all the people say You're ridin' high in April, shot down in May But I know I'm gonna change that tune When I'm back on top, back on top in June
June is bustin' out all over.
Spring being a tough act to follow, God created June.
What is one to say about June, the time of perfect young summer, the fulfillment of the promise of the earlier months, and with as yet no sign to remind one that its fresh young beauty will ever fade.
It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.
June is the gateway to summer.
It is better to be a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance.
Then followed that beautiful season... Summer.... Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies.
It is dry, hazy June weather. We are more of the earth, farther from heaven these days.
And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.
Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the year.
Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels The dizzy dancing way you feel As every fairy tale comes real I've looked at love that way.
Elvish singing is not a thing to miss, in June under the stars, not if you care for such things.
A bird in the boughs sang "June," And "June" hummed a bee In a Bacchic glee As he tumbled over and over Drunk with the honey-dew.
Oh that it were with me As with the flower; Blooming on its own tree For butterfly and bee Its summer morns: That I might bloom mine hour A rose in spite of thorns. Oh that my work were done As birds' that soar Rejoicing in the sun: That when my time is run And daylight too, I so might rest once more Cool with refreshing dew.
And since all this loveliness can not be Heaven, I know in my heart it is June.
To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June
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