O thou who passest thro' our valleys in <br />Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat <br />That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, <br />Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft <br />Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld <br />With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair. <br /> <br />Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard <br />Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car <br />Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs <br />Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on <br />Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy <br />Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: <br />Our valleys love the Summer in his pride. <br /> <br />Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire: <br />Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: <br />Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance: <br />We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, <br />Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, <br />Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.<br /><br />William Blake<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-summer/
