O summer day beside the joyous sea!
O summer day so wonderful and white,
So full of read more

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.

O for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!
O for an iceberg or two at control!
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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!

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."

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.

Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade.
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Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade.
Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

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, father's gone to market-town, he was up before the day,
And Jamie's after robins, and the man is read more

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?"

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.

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.