The sweet aroma of newly cut grasses float across gentle breezes.
Becoming fodder for the beasts on cold Winter days.
Tis haytime & the red complexioned sun
Was scarcely up ere blackbirds had begun
Along the meadow hedges here & there
To sing loud songs to the sweet smelling air
Where breath of flowers & grass & happy cow
Fling oer ones senses streams of fragrance now
While in some pleasant nook the swain & maid
Lean oer their rakes & loiter in the shade
Or bend a minute oer the bridge & throw
Crumbs in their leisure to the fish below
—Hark at that happy shout—& song between
Tis pleasures birthday in her meadow scene
What joy seems half so rich from pleasure won
As the loud laugh of maidens in the sun.
The garden is all abuzz, with bees, and butterflies, lightning bugs and ladybugs.
All so very busy dutifully distributing the pollen amongst the flowers.
I thank them more than words can say.
Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across
the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry
Withstands until the sweet
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
vanquish other blooms.
His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.
His labor is
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and
The world is wet today
luxurious, damp, drenched
drops hug the
anoint the still budded lilac blossoms
rich purple and plum
made richer by their watery skin
leaves under the weight
droplets heavy, hanging
bowing the white pine
undersides exposed to drink
drink in the morning
hushed in the
temperature near the dewpoint
sprouts of just planted
eager from the parched soil
new puddles bloom too
ground, the driveway
collect and gather
without the smell of summer rain
tears splash and spread
silent shimmers, heralds, messengers
"Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine The Month of Marriages! All
pleasant sights And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, The
foliage of the valleys and the heights. Mine are the longest days, the
loveliest nights; The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; I am the
mother of all dear delights; I am the fairest daughter of the