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