Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by,And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there,And let the window down. The butterflyFloats in upon the sunbeam, and the fairTanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughsAbove her widespread wares, the while she tellsThe farmers' fortunes in the fields, and quaffsThe 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-stainéd beesDrone in the clover depths. And up the heightThe 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 ringThat snares your little ear, for June is shortAnd 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 mouthWill soon blow down the road all roses go.
