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In lang, lang days o' simmer,
When the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae weep drap o' rain
To Nature parched and dry,
The genial night, wi' balmy breath,
Gars verdue, spring anew,
An' ilka blade o' grass
Keps its ain drap o' dew.
- James Ballantine, Its Ain Drap o' Dew
And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers, as a besieged city.
- Bible, Isaiah (ch. I, v. 8)
O thou who passest through our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer,
Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
- William Blake, To Summer
But how unlike to April's closing days!
High climbs the sun, and darts his powerful rays;
Whitens the fresh drawn mould and pierces through
The cumbrous clods that tumble round the plough.
- Robert Bloomfield
The sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing.
- William Cullen Bryant
Then crowned with flowery hay, came real joy, and summer, with his fervid-beaming eye.
- Robert Burns
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.
- Robert Burns, The Birks of Aberfeldy
I question not if thrushes sing,
If roses load the air;
Beyond my heart I need not reach
When all is summer there.
- John Vance Cheney, Love's World
The Indian Summer, the dead Summer's soul.
- Mary Clemmer (Mary Clemmer Ames), Presence
While the dog-roses blow and the dew-spangles shine.
- Eliza Cook
All green and fair the Summer lies,
Just budded from the bud of Spring,
With tender blue of wistful skies,
And winds which softly sing.
- Susan Coolidge (pseudonym of Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)
Oh, the summer night
Has a smile of light
And she sits on a sapphire throne.
- Barry Cornwall (pseudonym of Bryan Waller Procter),
Our summer such a russet livery wears as in a garment often dyed appears.
- John Dryden
Dust on thy mantle! dust,
Bright Summer, on thy livery of green!
A tarnish as of rust,
Dims thy late brilliant sheen;
And thy young glories,--leaf and bud and flower,--
Change cometh over them with every hour.
- William Davis Gallagher
Summer time an' the livin' is easy,
Fish are jumpin' an' the cotton is high.
Oh, yo' daddy's rich, and yo' ma' is good-lookin',
So hush, little baby, don' yo' cry.
- Ira Gershwin and DuBose Heyward,
a song in the play "Porgy and Bess"
From all the misty morning air, there comes a summer sound,
A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees, and ground.
The birds they sing upon the wing, the pigeons bill and coo.
- Richard Watson Gilder
Oh, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day,
And Jamie's after robins, and the man is making hay,
And whistling down the hollow goes the boy that minds the mill,
While mother from the kitchen door is calling with a will,
"Polly!--Polly!--The cows are in the corn!
Oh, where's Polly?"
- Richard Watson Gilder, A Midsummer Song
Bright summer is crowned with roses; deep in the forest arbutus doth hide.
- Dora Read Goodale
Thou'rt bearing hence thy roses,
Glad summer, fare thee well!
Thou'rt singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell.
- Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans
Here is the ghost
Of a summer that lived for us,
Here is a promise
Of summer to be.
- William Ernest Henley, Rhymes and Rhythms
All labours draw hame at even,
And can to others say,
"Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Whilk sent this summer day."
- Alexander Hume (Home), Evening (st. 2)
Sumer is y cumen in.
- John of Fornsete, Harleian Manuscript 978,
a famous old musical round, a song probably written in 1226 at the Abbey of Reading
O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!
O for an iceberg or two at control!
O for a vale that at midday the dew cumbers!
O for a pleasure trip up to the pole!
- Rossiter Johnson, Ninety-Nine in the Shade
Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.
- Charles Lamb (used pseudonym Elia),
To V. Novello
The air of summer was sweeter than wine.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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