I am the month when roses Bloom brightest o’er the glade, I am the month when marriages I lost happily are made.
Mine is the time of foliage, When hills and valleys teem With buds and vines sweet scented, All clothed in glowing green.
My nights are bright and starry, My days are long and clear And truly I’m the fairest, Of all months in the year.
With night dews gently falling, With bees upon the wing, And tiny rills soft rippling Amid the valleys sing.
The farmer with his ploughshare, Swift turning up the sod, His brawny arms at labor, His soul with Nature’s God.