| William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908. | | | | Poetical Sketches | | To Summer |
| | | 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 golden tent, and oft | |
| Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld | 5 |
| With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair. | |
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| 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 | 10 |
| Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy | |
| Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: | |
| Our valleys love the Summer in his pride. | |
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| Our bards are fam’d who strike the silver wire: | |
| Our youth are bolder than the southern swains: | 15 |
| 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. | | | | |
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