And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there,

And let the window down. The butterfly

Floats in opon the sunbeam, and the fair

Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs

Above her widespread wares,the while she tells

The farmer's fortunes in the fields, and quaffs

The water from the spider-peopled wells.

The hedges are all drowned in green grass seas,

And bobbing poppies flare like Elmo's light

While siren-like the pollen-stained bees

Drone in the clover depths. And up the height

The cuckoo's voice is hoarse and broke with joy.

And on the lowland crops the crows make raid,

Nor fear the clappers of the farmer's boy,

Who sleeps, like drunken Noah, in the shade.

And loop this red rose in that hazel ring

That snares your little ear, for June is short

And we must joy in it and dance and sing,

And from her bounty draw her rosy worth.

Ay! soon the swallows will be flying south,

The wind wheel north to gather in the snow

Even the roses spilt on youth's red mouth