That beautiful season
. . . the Summer of All-Saints!
Filled was the air with a dreamy read more

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.

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.

All labours draw hame at even,
And can to others say,
"Thanks to the gracious God of read more

All labours draw hame at even,
And can to others say,
"Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Whilk sent this summer day."

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?

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.

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.

The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Lock Katrine blue,
Mildly and soft the western breeze
read more

The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple changed Lock 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.

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all read more

Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that lowered upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

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.