Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by, <br /> And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there, <br /> And let the window down. The butterfly <br />Floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair <br />Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs <br />Above her widespread wares, the while she tells <br />The farmers' fortunes in the fields, and quaffs <br /> The water from the spider-peopled wells. <br />The hedges are all drowned in green grass seas, <br /> And bobbing poppies flare like Elmo's light, <br /> While siren-like the pollen-staind bees <br /> Drone in the clover depths. And up the height <br />The cuckoo's voice is hoarse and broke with joy. <br /> And on the lowland crops the crows make raid, <br />Nor fear the clappers of the farmer's boy, <br />Who sleeps, like drunken Noah, in the shad <br />And loop this red rose in that hazel ring <br />That snares your little ear, for June is short <br /> And we must joy in it and dance and sing, <br />And from her bounty draw her rosy worth. <br />Ay! soon the swallows will be flying south, <br />The wind wheel north to gather in the snow, <br />Even the roses spilt on youth's red mouth <br />Will soon blow down the road all roses go.<br /><br />Francis Ledwidge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/june-33/
