Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.

Oh, the summer night
Has a smile of light
And she sits on a sapphire throne.

Oh, the summer night
Has a smile of light
And she sits on a sapphire throne.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds read more

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So ling lives this, and this gives life to thee.

O thou who passest through our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
read more

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.

Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with
its usual severity.

Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with
its usual severity.

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

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

And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a
lodge in a garden read more

And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a
lodge in a garden of cucumbers, as a besieged city.

Did he so often lodge in open field,
In winter's cold and summer's parching heat,
To conquer read more

Did he so often lodge in open field,
In winter's cold and summer's parching heat,
To conquer France, his true inheritance?

These are the forgeries of jealousy;
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, read more

These are the forgeries of jealousy;
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.