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It is the month of June, The month of leaves and roses, When pleasant sights salute the eyes And pleasant scents the noses.

'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat; There's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; And I often stop with the fear I feel-- He runs so close to the rapid wheel.