Rich fresh wine of June, We stagger into you smeared with pollen, Overcome as the turtle Laying her eggs in roadside sand.

First you figure out what each one means by itself, the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop Full of moonlight. Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.

How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams With its illusions, aspirations, dreams! Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!

Straight I walked to the trellis vine. Wisteria touched a lifted nostril: Feelings of beauty diffused, to entwine My spirit with June’s own aura.

Out of the blood of a conflict fraternal, Out of the dust and the dimness of death, Burst into blossoms of glory eternal Flowers that sweeten the world with their breath.

Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

The wind is tossing the lilacs, The new leaves laugh in the sun, And the petals fall on the orchard wall, But for me the spring is done.

"The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don’t flower, for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing."

While from the purpling east departs The star that led the dawn, Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, For May is on the lawn.

Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.

There is not time enough on earth For all I’d like to do; But, having lived and having toiled, I’d like the world to find Some little touch of beauty That my soul had left behind.

I was born to water On an island in the sea. The surf outside the window Each night put me to sleep. Waves against the shore Rumbled cobbles On the stormy coast.

Today is the day when daffodils bloom, Which children pick to fill the room, Today is the day when grasses green, When leaves burst forth for spring to be seen.

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain’d his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run.

A moondew stars her hanging hair And moonlight kisses her young brow And, gathering, she sings an air: Fair as the wave is, fair, art thou!

Midnight on a carousel ride Reaching for the gold ring Down inside Never could reach it, just slips away But I try.

March is the month of expectation, The things we do not know, The Persons of prognostication Are coming now.

Beauty is everlasting. And winter’s burial is not. Underneath cold winter bone, the flesh of summer sleeps.

Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ’Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells, Pumping in my living room.

What is love? ’Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What’s to come is still unsure; In delay there lies no plenty.