Till soft-shod June will track it, like a hound
Scents the lone covert where the wild deer feed.
Then from an ample mint, with lavish hand,
In every field, by every fountain-side,
She'll scatter gold-bits round her far and wide,
In flower cups o'er all the fragrant land.
Wherever butter-flowers and wild daisies blow,
You'll mark her presence in the green lush grasses;
You'll hear her blithely singing as she passes
On sunny uplands where gold violets grow.