Our summer libraryA selection of poems that we think are perfect to read in summer
A Red, Red Rose
O my Luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile. Robert Burns (1754-1796). Dusk in June
Evening, and all the birds In a chorus of shimmering sound Are easing their hearts of joy For miles around. The air is blue and sweet, The few first stars are white, – Oh let me like the birds Sing before night. Sara Teasdale (1884–1933) From Sabbath Bells
I’ve often on a Sabbath day Where pastoral quiet dwells Lay down among the new mown hay To listen distant bells That beautifully flung the sound Upon the quiet wind While beans in blossom breathed around A fragrance o’er the mind A fragrance and a joy beside That never wears away The very air seems deified Upon a Sabbath day So beautiful the flitting wrack Slow pausing from the eye Earth’s music seemed to call them back Calm settled in the sky The ear it lost and caught the sound Swelled beautifully on And fitful melody around Of sweetness heard and gone I felt such thoughts I yearned to sing The humming air’s delight That seemed to move the swallow’s wing Into a wilder flight The butterfly in wings of brown Would find me where I lay Fluttering and bobbing up and down And settling on the hay The waving blossoms seemed to throw Their fragrance to the sound While up and down and loud and low The bells were ringing round John Clare (1793–1864) From The Winter’s Tale
Here’s flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, And with him rises. William Shakespeare (1564–1616) It Is Not Growing Like A Tree
It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. Ben Jonson (1574-1637). She Has Made Me Wayside Posies
She has made me wayside posies: here they stand, Bringing fresh memories of where they grew. As new-come travellers from a world we knew Wake every while some image of their land, So these whose buds our woodland breezes fanned Bring to my room the meadow where they blew, The brook-side cliff, the elms where wood-doves coo– And every flower is dearer for her hand. Oh blossoms of the paths she loves to tread, Some grace of her is in all thoughts you bear: For in my memories of your homes that were The old sweet loneliness they kept is fled, And would I think it back I find instead A presence of my darling mingling there. Augusta Webster (1837–94) The Glory
The glory of the beauty of the morning, - The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew; The blackbird that has found it, and the dove That tempts me on to something sweeter than love; White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay; The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: - The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning All I can ever do, all I can be, Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue, The happiness I fancy fit to dwell In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell, Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops, In hope to find whatever it is I seek, Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things That we know naught of, in the hazel copse? Or must I be content with discontent As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings? And shall I ask at the day's end once more What beauty is, and what I can have meant By happiness? And shall I let all go, Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know That I was happy oft and oft before, Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent, How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to, Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core. Edward Thomas (1878-1917) |
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