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June--to--Come
When the sun’s fire and gold
Sets the bee humming,
I will not write to tell
Him that I’m coming,
But ride out unawares
On that old road,
Of Minsterworth, of Peace,
Of Framilode,
And walk, not looked for, in
That cool, dark passage.
Never a single word;
Myself my message.
And then; well ... O we’ll drift
And stand and gaze,
And wonder how we could
In those Bad Days