The days of June

Every year at this time I recall this sweet poem, recited by my grandfather in an oration contest when he was a small child, around 1900 or so. He could recite it from memory almost until he died, aged 96.

Honeysuckle! Sweet am I!

Hark to me as you pass by.

With my tendrils reaching out,

porch and wall I climb about.

Making sweet the days of June,

which, alas, must end too soon.

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