By Hilda Conkling

There’s a busy hum in the farm meadow
As the bees go from daisy to clover-top
Humming, humming as the horizon clouds blow nearer,
Humming, humming on this gay June morning.
Even the vineyards are in bloom:
The grape-flower breath comes on the breeze
Something like breath of primroses that bloom in evening light
And laugh at what goes on in the world.

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