Summer Morning

  My photo

Summer Morning

By John Clare

 

The cocks have now the morn foretold,
     The sun again begins to peep,
The shepherd, whistling to his fold,
     Unpens and frees the captive sheep.
O’er pathless plains at early hours
     The sleepy rustic sloomy goes;
The dews, brushed off from grass and flowers,
     Bemoistening sop his hardened shoes.

While every leaf that forms a shade,
     And every floweret’s silken top,
And every shivering bent and blade,
     Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop.
But soon shall fly those diamond drops,
     The red round sun advances higher,
And, stretching o’er the mountain tops,
     Is gilding sweet the village-spire.

’Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
     Or list the gurgling of the brook;
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees,
     Peruse and pause on Nature’s book,
When Nature every sweet prepares
     To entertain our wished delay,—
The images which morning wears,
     The wakening charms of early day!

Now let me tread the meadow paths
            While glittering dew the ground illumes,
As, sprinkled o’er the withering swaths,
            Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes;
And hear the beetle sound his horn;
            And hear the skylark whistling nigh,
Sprung from his bed of tufted corn,
            A haling minstrel from the sky.  

A Something in a Summer's Day

~ A treasured holiday photo ~
Geraniums and Lavender Shutters - Dordogne July 2006


By Emily Dickinson

A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer’s noon —
A depth — an Azure — a perfume —
Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see —

Then veil my too inspecting face
Lets such a subtle — shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me —

The wizard fingers never rest —
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it narrow bed —

Still rears the East her amber Flag —
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red —

So looking on — the night — the morn
Conclude the wonder gay —
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day.