A Something in a Summer’s Day
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!

To Summer
William Blake

​​O thou who passest thro’ our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched’st here thy goldent 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.

My Childhood’s Home
John Bradford

There may be lands more fair than mine,
With skies of cloudless blue,
Where morning’s dewdrops brighter shine
On flowers of deeper hue,
Which I might see were I to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood’s home.

But while beneath this cloud-fleck’d sky
The rose and violet bloom.
And load each breeze that wanders by
With freights of rich perfume,
Tve joys I prize too much to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood’s home.

There may be lands beyond the main
Where lofty mountains rise.
While over forest, lake, aud plain,
The soaring eagle flies.
Which I might see were I to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood’s home.

But while the hills around me raise
Their wooded slopes on high.
Where wild birds strive, in joyous lays,
Each other to outvie,
I’ve joys I prize too much to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood’s home.

Warm Summer Sun
Mark Twain

Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.

In Summer Time
Paul Laurence Dunbar

When summer time has come, and all
The world is in the magic thrall
Of perfumed airs that lull each sense
To fits of drowsy indolence;
When skies are deepest blue above,
And flow’rs aflush, -then most I love
To start, while early dews are damp,
And wend my way in woodland tramp
Where forests rustle, tree on tree,
And sing their silent songs to me;
Where pathways meet and pathways part,-
To walk with Nature heart by heart,
Till wearied out at last I lie
Where some sweet stream steals singing by
A mossy bank; where violets vie
In color with the summer sky,-
Or take my rod and line and hook,
And wander to some darkling brook,
Where all day long the willows dream,
And idly droop to kiss the stream.

All photography by: Charlotte Elizabeth Photographer