A rhyme for June

Now marshy pools on the road's edge,
Or creeks that slip 'twixt banks of sedge,
With marigolds be set aflare;
And not a corner south or north,
But there a brier-rose breaks forth,
And bees go droning down the air.

The bramble now begins to blow,
The eider-bush puts on its snow,
And birds be sweet till fall of dew;
And when my love and I go out,
So thick the grass grows all about—
In truth, it scarce will let us through.