BROOM out the floor now, lay the fender by, And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there, And let the window down. The butterfly Floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs Above her widespread wares, the while she tells The farmers' 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 Elmor'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 Will soon blow down the road all roses go. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEFORE A PAINTING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SLEEPING TOGETHER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD A HUNDRED COLLARS by ROBERT FROST WHEN HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ by ROBERT HERRICK ECHO AND THE FERRY by JEAN INGELOW THE MARCH INTO VIRGINIA by HERMAN MELVILLE LOVE'S CHANGE by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: THE WRITER TO HIS BOOK by THOMAS CAMPION |