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In june the bush we call
alder was heavy, listless,
its leaves studded with galls,
growing wherever we didn’t
want it.
—Denise Levertov (b. 1923)
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I know, you have forgotten those june nights on the Riviera, where we sat ‘neath the shimmering skies, moonlight bathing in the Mediterranean! We were young, gay, reckless! The night I drank champagne from your slipper—two quarts. It would have held more, but you were wearing inner soles!
—Irving Brecher, U. S. screenwriter, and Edward Buzzell. J. Cheever Loophole (Groucho Marx)