Classic Poem

Janet, as the month of Juno
Comes to its perfervid finish,
And the fairest visions view no
Hope the heat is to diminish;
As the torrid morning lingers,
And as drags the afternoon;
When the pen between the fingers
Sticks; in short, when it is June —

When the month is June, my Janet,
As I said at the beginning,
Muse I then upon this planet
Far more spinned against than spinning.
As I listen for the thunder-
Storm to bring about the cool
Night, I sit serene and under-
Take a poem of this school.

To a dull and unpoetic
Person void of inspiration
What a snap is the synthetic
And jejune versification!
When the bard is on the brink of
All the terrors that appall,
It is sweet to sit and think of
You, and nothing else at all.