William Blake

To Summer

 Î thou who passest thro' our valleys in
 Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
 That flames from their large nostrils! thou, Î Summer,
 Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft
 Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
 With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

 Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
 Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
 Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
 Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
 Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
 Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
 Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

 Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
 Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
 Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
 We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
 Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
 Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.