Posts filed under ‘.summer’

A July Day

by Eben Eugene Rexford

In idle mood, this happy day,

I let the moments drift away;

I lie among the tangled grass

And watch the crinkling billows pass

O’er seas of clover. Like a tide

That sets across the meadow wide,

The crimson-crested ripples run

From isles of shade to shores of sun;

And one white lily seems to be

A sail upon this summer sea,

Blown northward, bringing me, to-day,

A fragrant freight from far Cathay.

Low as the wind that waves the rose

In gardens where the poppy grows,

And sweet as bells heard far away,

A robin sings his song to-day;

Sings softly, by his hidden nest,

A little roundelay of rest;

And as the wind his dwelling swings

He dreams his dream of unfledged wings,

While, blending with his song, I hear

A brook’s low babble, somewhere near.

A glory wraps the hills, and seems

To weave an atmosphere of dreams

About the mountain’s kingly crest

As sinks the sun adown the west.

Earth seems to sit with folded hands

In peace he only understands

Who has no care, no vain regret,

No sorrow he would fain forget,

And like a child upon her breast

I lie, this happy day, and rest.

The ” green things growing ” whisper me

Of many an earth-old mystery;

Of blossoms hiding in the mold,

And what the acorn-cups enfold;

Of life unseen by eyes too dim

To look through Nature up to Him

Who writes the poem of the year

For human heart, and eye, and ear.

O summer day, surpassing fair,

With hints of heaven in earth and air,

Not long I keep you in my hold —

The book is closed — the tale is told.

The valley fills with amber mist;

The sky is gold and amethyst.

Soft, soft and low, and silver clear

The robin’s vesper hymn I hear,

And see the stars lit, one by one.

The happy summer day is done.

(more…)

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July 1, 2019 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

(more…)

June 19, 2019 at 8:25 pm 1 comment

Bed in Summer

by Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

(more…)

July 2, 2018 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

In the Summer

by Thomas Hood

In the summer when I go to bed
The sun still streaming overhead
My bed becomes so small and hot
With sheets and pillow in a knot
And then I lie and try to see
The things I’d really like to be.

I think I’d be a glossy cat
A little plump, but not too fat,
I’d never touch a bird or mouse
I’m much too busy round the house.

And then a fierce and hungry hound
The king of dogs for miles around
I’d chase the postman just for fun
To see how quickly he could run.

Perhaps I’d be a crocodile
Within the marshes of the Nile
And paddle in the river-bed
With dripping mud-caps on my head.

Or maybe next a mountain goat,
With shaggy whiskers at my throat,
Leaping streams and jumping rocks
In stripey pink and purple socks.

Or else I’d be a polar bear
And on an iceberg make my lair;
I’d keep a shop in Baffin Sound
To sell icebergs by the pound.

And then I’d be a wise old frog,
Squatting on a sunken log,
I’d teach the fishes lots of games
And how to read and write their names.

An Indian lion then I’d be
And lounge about on my settee;
I’d feed on nothing but bananas
And spend all day in my pyjamas.

I’d like to be a tall giraffe
Makings lots of people laugh;
I’d do a tap-dance in the street
With little bells upon my feet.

And then I’d be a foxy fox
Streaking through the hollyhocks;
Horse or hound would ne’er catch me
I’m master of disguise, you see.

I think I’d be a chimpanzee
With musical ability,
I’d play a silver clarinet
Or form a Monkey String Quartet.

And then a snake with scales of gold
Guarding hoards of wealth untold,
No thief would dare to steal a pin –
But friends of mine I would let in.

But then before I really know
Just what I’d be or where I’d go
My bed becomes so wide and deep
And all my thoughts are fast asleep.

(more…)

June 9, 2018 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

It is the summer’s great last heat…

It is the summer’s great last heat
It is the fall’s first chill: They meet.

Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

September 22, 2017 at 5:25 am Leave a comment

C’est l’été !

July 15, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Summertime Rhyme

July 13, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

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