All in June.
A week ago I had a fire to warm my feet, my hands and face;
Cold winds that never make a friend, crept in and out of every place.
Today the fields are rich in grass, and buttercups in thousands grow;
I'll show the world where I have been - with gold dust seen on either shoe.
Till to my garden back I come, where bumble-bees for hours and hours
Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums, to wriggle out of hollow flowers.
By W H DAVIES.