In early June the world of leaf and blade and flowers explodes, and every sunset is different.
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 the time for being in the world in new ways, for throwing off the cold and dark spots of life.
June is bustin' out all over.
If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance.
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.
June is the gateway to summer.
It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.
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.
It is better to be a young June-bug than an old bird of paradise.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses, Fills the children's hands with posies.
Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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.
Now summer is in flower and natures hum Is never silent round her sultry bloom Insects as small as dust are never done Wi' glittering dance and reeling in the sun And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee Are never weary of their melody Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine That lift athirst their slender throated flowers Agape for dew falls and for honey showers These round each bush in sweet disorder run And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun.
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.
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.
There are two seasons in Scotland: June and Winter.
The flowers are Nature's jewels, with whose wealth she decks her summer beauty.
In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?
How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
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