JUNE Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by, And plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there, And let the window down. The butterfly Floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair Tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs Above her widespread wares, the while she tells The farmers' fortunes in the fields, and quaffs The 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-stained bees Drone in the clover depths. And up the height The 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 ring That snares your little ear, for June is short And 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 mouth Will soon blow down the road all roses go. -- Francis Ledwidge was born in Slane, Co. Meath. He was a farm labourer and, later, secretary of the local farm labourer's union. Lord Dunsany encouraged him in his early writing and also, it would seem, into joining Dunsany's own regiment in the First World War. Ledwidge was killed in Belgium.