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.

To-day, the fields are rich in grass,

And buttercups in thousand 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 wiggle out of hollow flowers.