Poems about Summer

Summer ripens the senses like no other season, and poets across centuries have rushed to capture its heat-hazed afternoons, sudden cloudbursts, and long lilac twilights. We’ve compiled a list of our favorite poems about summer. Dip in, cool off, and let these classic voices remind you why the season, like good poetry, always feels too short.

Poems about Summer

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

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;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
 So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
 So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

In Summer by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies’ soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air’s soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer’s boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shining green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another’s ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o’er-full heart, without aim or art;
’T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,—
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.

Bed in Summer by Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night
 And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
 I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
 The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
 Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
 When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
 To have to go to bed by day?

Summer by Amy Lowell

Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat’s wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature’s changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world’s heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!

A Something in a Summer’s Day by Emily Dickinson

A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.

A something in a summer’s noon—
A depth—an Azure—a perfume—
Transcending ecstasy.

And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see—

Then veil my too inspecting face
Let such a subtle—shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me—

The wizard fingers never rest—
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes its narrow bed—

Still rears the East her amber Flag—
Guides still the sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red—

So looking on—the night—the morn
Conclude the wonder gay—
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!

Summer Shower by Emily Dickinson

A drop fell on the apple tree,
Another on the roof;
A half a dozen kissed the eaves,
And made the gables laugh.

A few went out to help the brook,
That went to help the sea.
Myself conjectured, were they pearls,
What necklaces could be!

The dust replaced in hoisted roads,
The birds jocoser sung;
The sunshine threw his hat away,
The orchards spangles hung.

The breezes brought dejected lutes,
And bathed them in the glee;
The East put out a single flag,
And signed the fête away.

Summer Night by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace-walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

 Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

 Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

 Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

 Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

June by William Cullen Bryant

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round;
And thought that when I came to lie
Within the silent ground,
’Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton’s hand, my grave to make,
The rich green mountain turf should break.

(poem continues through all 64 lines of Bryant’s original)

A Night in June. by Madison Cawein

White as a lily moulded of Earth’s milk
That eve the moon bloomed in a hyacinth sky;
Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,
Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:
Bright as a naiad’s leap, from shine to shade
The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;
Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,
Flashed like a great enchantment-welded blade.
And when the western sky seemed some weird land,
And night a witching spell at whose command
One sloping star fell green from heav’n; and deep
The warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;
Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,
And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.

II.

There where they part, the porch’s steps are strewn
With wind-blown petals of the purple vine;
Athwart the porch the shadow of a pine
Cleaves the white moonlight; and like some calm rune
Heaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;
And now a meteor draws a lilac line
Across the welkin, as if God would sign
The perfect poem of this night of June.
The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,
Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grass
Like crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;
And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,
The dewdropp trembles on the peony,
As in a lover’s heart his sweetheart’s name.

Summer Rain by Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

Oh, what is so pure as the glad summer rain,
That falls on the grass where the sunlight has lain?
And what is so fair as the flowers that lie
All bathed in the tears of the soft summer sky?
The blue of the heavens is dimmed by the rain
That wears away sorrow and washes out pain;
But we know that the flowers we cherish would die
Were it not for the tears of the cloud-laden sky.
The rose is the sweeter when kissed by the rain,
And hearts are the dearer where sorrow has lain;
The sky is the fairer that rain-clouds have swept,
And no eyes are so bright as the eyes that have wept.
Oh, they are so happy, these flowers that die,
They laugh in the sunshine, oh, why cannot I?
They droop in the shadow, they smile in the sun,
Yet they die in the winter when summer is done.
The lily is lovely, and fragrant her breath,
But the beauty she wears is the emblem of death;
The rain is so fair as it falls on the flowers,
But the clouds are the shadows of sunnier hours.
Why laugh in the sunshine, why smile in the rain?
The world is a shadow and life is a pain;
Why live in the summer, why dream in the sun,
To die in the winter, when summer is done?
Oh, there is the truth that each life underlies,
That baffles the poets and sages so wise;
Ah! there is the bitter that lies in the sweet
As we gather the roses that bloom at our feet.
Oh, flowers forgive me, I’m willful to-day,
Oh, take back the lesson you gave me I pray;
For I slept in the sunshine, I woke in the rain
And it banished forever my sorrow and pain.

Summer by Marietta Holley

Now sinks the Summer sun into the sea;
Sure never such a sunset shone as this,
That on its golden wing has borne such bliss,
 Dear Love, to thee and me.

Ah, life was drear and lonely, missing thee,
Though what my loss I did not then divine;
But all is past—the sweet words, Thou art mine,
 Make bliss for thee and me.

How swells the light breeze o’er the blossoming lea,
Sure never winds swept past so sweet and low;
No lonely, unblest future waiteth now;
 Dear Love, for thee and me.

Look upward o’er the glowing West and see;
Surely the star of evening never shone
With such a holy radiance—oh, my own,
 Heaven smiles on thee and me.

Summer Sun by Robert Louis Stevenson

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour 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 the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

Sonnet (“I love to see the summer beaming forth”) by John Clare

I love to see the summer beaming forth
And white wool-sack clouds sailing to the north;
I love to see the wild flowers come again
And mare-blobs stain with gold the meadow drain;
And water-lilies whiten on the floods,
Where reed-clumps rustle like a wind-shook wood;
Where from her hiding-place the moor-hen pushes,
And seeks her flag-nest floating in bull-rushes;
I like the willow leaning half way o’er
The clear deep lake to stand upon its shore;
I love the hay-grass when the flower-head swings
To summer winds and insects happy wings
That sport about the meadow—the bright day,
And see bright beetles in the clear lake play.

Summer Wind by William Cullen Bryant

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. … (full 54-line poem continues to the close)

Summer Grass by Carl Sandburg

Summer grass aches and whispers
It wants something; it calls and it sings; it pours
 Out wishes to the overhead stars.
The rain hears; the rain answers; the rain is slow
 Coming; the rain wets the face of the grass.

To Summer by William Blake

O Thou who passest thro’ our vales in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer,
Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

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
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire;
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains;
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. (Home)

June Night by Sara Teasdale

Oh Earth, you are too dear to-night,
How can I sleep while all around
Floats rainy fragrance and the far
Deep voice of the ocean that talks to the ground?

Oh Earth, you gave me all I have,
I love you, I love you, oh what have I
That I can give you in return
Except my body after I die? (American Literature)

An August Midnight by Thomas Hardy

I
A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
On this scene enter—winged, horned, and spined—
A long-legs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
While ’mid my page there idly stands
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands …

II
Thus meet we five, in this still place,
At this point of time, at this point in space.
 My guests parade my new-penned ink,
Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink.
“God’s humblest, they!” I muse. Yet why?
They know Earth-secrets that know not I.

Heat by Madison Cawein

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.

Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.

By his cart’s side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffing to his knees.

(poem continues through all 80 lines to the benedictory close)

In Summer by Madison Cawein

When in dry hollows, hilled with hay,
The vesper-sparrow sings afar;
And, golden-gray, dusk dies away
Beneath the amber evening-star:

There, where a warm and shadowy arm
The woodland lays around the farm,
I meet you where we kissed, dear heart,
To kiss you at the tryst, dear heart,
To kiss you at the tryst! (Simple Poetry)

Conclusion

These poems show that writers in every age have tried to put summer’s sights and feelings into words. Keep the list handy for campfires, porch reading, or a quick pick-me-up on a cold day. Most of all, let the verses remind you to slow down and enjoy the summer season while it lasts.

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