Dear All,

We are into June.  This month brings beauty in all forms, from flowers to sunlight. So our attachments today relate to the month & to beauty in different forms.  We hope this June will live up to the best of our expectations!

The blessing this week is Deep Peace from Sacred Pathways.

With love


The Breezes of June

Paul Hamilton Hayne


On! sweet and soft,
Returning oft,
As oft they pass benignly,
The warm June breezes come and go,
Through golden rounds of murmurous flow,
At length to sigh,
Wax faint and die,
Far down the panting primrose sky,


Though soft and low
These breezes blow,
Their voice is passion’s wholly;
And ah! our hearts go forth to meet
The burden of their music sweet,
Ere yet it sighs,
Faints, falters, dies
Down the rich path of sunset skies—
Half glad, half melancholy!


Bend, bend thine ear!
Oh! hark and hear
What vows each blithe new-comer!
Each warm June breeze that comes goes,
Is whispering to the royal rose,
And star-pale lily, trembling nigh,
Ere yet in subtlest harmony
Its murmurs die,
Wax faint and die
On thy flushed bosom, passionate sky,
Of youthful summer!



A Little Dew is Enough

Joyce Rupp


One of my fond memories of my childhood

on a Iowa farm is the dew of summer mornings.

The coolness of a new dawn and the grass

would be deliciously wet on my small bare feet.

I remember my father speaking one time

of how his corn crop could be saved in a dry season

if there was enough heavy dew each day.

This moisture on the leaves could be absorbed

by the plant and would help it to survive.

Sometimes we are in tough spot,

and all we have is a little dew.

Yet, this bit of spiritual moisture or help from God

is enough to see us through until better times.



Yes, I remember Adlestrop —
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop — only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.


Edward Thomas