Classic Poem

A week ago I had a fire,
To warm my feet, my hands and face;
Cold winds, that never make a friend,
Crept in and out of every place.

Today, the fields are rich in grass,
And buttercups in thousands grow;
I'll show the World where I have been —
With gold-dust seen on either shoe.

Till to my garden back I come,
Where bumble-bees, for hours and hours,
Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,
To wriggle out of hollow flowers.