Summers Spell Summer's eiderdown spins a cotton-scented spell
Of dry tongues swapping secrets, sworn not to tell.
Cold ice cream in buckets, hand-cranked under heaven,
And lies served neat, and bitterness unleavened.
Young girls enraging old, beneath a cranky moon.
Half-worked days, under shade trees at high noon.
Hair bleached by the sun, with a lemonade wisp;
Shy, freckled faces; never yet been kissed.
Crops on the vine, ripening till dawn;
Orchard trees and berries, to season life's songs
Of weddings on porches, and babies in cradles.
Long arms, big hands working long as they're able.
The soil made richer, with their sinewy strength;
Under the sun, their children add length.
Though a heartier people never may be found,
Their feet on earth so gentle, they never broke ground.
Summer Sun Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
Thicker than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlor cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.
Above the hills, along with the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
By Robert Louis Stevenson