Shakespeare.    

Mary Clemmer.    

Thomson.    

Shakespeare.    

Longfellow.    

	Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes,
	And o’er the crystal streamlet plays.

Burns.    

Susan Coolidge.    

Dora Goodale.    

Eliza Cook.    

Thomson.    

Whittier.    

Dryden.    

Sir Walter Scott.    

Mrs. E. Oakes Smith.    

Shakespeare.    

Burns.    

	It’s surely summer, for there’s a swallow:
	Come one swallow, his mate will follow,
	The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.

Christina G. Rossetti.    

	White clouds, whose shadows haunt the deep,
	Light mists, whose soft embraces keep
	The sunshine on the hills asleep!

Whittier.    

	Very hot and still the air was,
	Very smooth the gliding river,
	Motionless the sleeping shadows.

Longfellow.    

	Then came the jolly summer, being dight
	In a thin silken cassock, coloured green,
	That was unlined all, to be more light.

Spenser.    

Virgil.    

	Before green apples blush,
	Before green nuts embrown,
	Why, one day in the country
	Is worth a month in town.

Christina G. Rossetti.    

Sydney Smith.    

	Patient of thirst and toil,
	Son of the desert, e’en the camel feels,
	Shot through his wither’d heart, the fiery blast.

Thomson.    

	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.    

	Here is the ghost
	Of a summer that lived for us,
	Here is a promise
	Of summer to be.

Wm. Ernest Henley.    

	Thou’rt bearing hence thy roses,
	Glad summer, fare thee well!
	Thou’rt singing thy last melodies
	In every wood and dell.

Mrs. Hemans.    

	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.    

	The weary August days are long;
	The locusts sing a plaintive song,
	The cattle miss their master’s call
	When they see the sunset shadows fall.

E. C. Stedman.    

	But see, the shepherds shun the noonday heat,
	The lowing herds to murmuring brooks retreat,
	To closer shades the panting flocks remove;
	Ye gods! and is there no relief for love?

Pope.    

	Through the open door
	A drowsy smell of flowers—gay heliotrope,
	And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette—
	Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends
	To the pervading symphony of peace.

Whittier.    

	The summer dawn’s reflected hue
	To purple changed Loch Katrine blue,
	Mildly and soft the western breeze
	Just kiss’d the lake, just stirr’d the trees,
	And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
	Trembled but dimpled not for joy.

Scott.    

	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.

R. W. Gilder.    

	That beautiful season
	*  *  *  the Summer of All-Saints!
	Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
	Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

Longfellow.    

	From brightening fields of ether fair-disclosed,
	Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes,
	In pride of youth, and felt through Nature’s depth;
	He comes, attended by the sultry Hours,
	And ever-fanning breezes, on his way.

Thomson.    

	O summer day beside the joyous sea!
	O summer day so wonderful and white,
	So full of gladness and so full of pain!
	Forever and forever shalt thou be
	To some the gravestone of a dead delight,
	To some the landmark of a new domain.

Longfellow.    

	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.

Wm. Blake.    

	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?”

R. W. Gilder.    

	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.

Bryant.    

	All-conquering Heat, O, intermit thy wrath!
	And on my throbbing temples, potent thus,
	Beam not so fierce! incessant still you flow,
	And still another fervent flood succeeds,
	Pour’d on the head profuse. In vain I sigh,
	And restless turn, and look around for night;
	Night is far off; and hotter Hours approach.

Thomson.    

	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.

Bloomfield.    

	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.

Wm. D. Gallagher.