Prosaic Reason 'Neath His Vision Dips

 A June Sonnet
by Clara B. Heath 

A poet were no poet if the June went by,
Year after year, and brought no tender thrill
Through all his being till his pulse ran high.
When thistle down before the wind lies still,
His gross and selfish thoughts perchance will fill
The rare June days, with summer roses nigh.
A poet may be songless! his mute lips
May answer not when Nature speaks in tune,
But rhythmic numbers thro' each day-dream slips;
His fancies throng him 'neath the pure pale moon;
He soars on wings the care fiend never clips,
Tireless at eve as in the golden noon;
Prosaic reason 'neath his vision dips;·
His purple mantle wraps him close in June.