Throw Open Wide Your Golden Gates, O Poet-Landed Month Of June, And Waft Me, On Your Spicy Breath, The Melody Of Birds In Tune. O Fairest Palace Of The Three, Wherein Queen Summer Holdeth Sway, I Gaze Upon Your Leafy Courts From Out The Vestibule Of May. I Fain Would Tread Your Garden Walks, Or In Your Shady Bowers Recline; Then Open Wide Your Golden Gates, And Make Them Mine, And Make Them Mine.