Summer Poems

Summer is the time of actions and impressions. While nature is busy by growing plants and different kinds of offspring people are eager for new experiences. Bright days are filled with warmth as well as short nights.

They are the best time to collect thoughts and impressions and express them right here and right now.

Poems about summer are filled with energy and joy. They were inspired by wonderful days so they all are good. This small collection will bring a bit of summer joy in any time of year.

Poetry About Summer

 

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The last of Summer is Delight --

Deterred by Retrospect.

'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review --

Enchantment's Syndicate.

 

To meet it -- nameless as it is --

Without celestial Mail --

Audacious as without a Knock

To walk within the Veil.

 (Emily Dickinson)

 

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O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice!

O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths!

O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb!

A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.

 (Walt Whitman)

 

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Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;

Warm southern wind, blow softly here;

Green sod above, lie light, lie light;

Good night, dear heart, good night, good night.

 (Mark Twain)

 

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Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,

All soft and still and fair;

The solemn hour of midnight

Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

 

But most where trees are sending

Their breezy boughs on high,

Or stooping low are lending

A shelter from the sky.

 

And there in those wild bowers

A lovely form is laid;

Green grass and dew-steeped flowers

Wave gently round her head.

(Emily Bronte)

 

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June, thy beauty is a snare,

To waste time in visions rare;

Of vain dreaming, oh, beware

(Caroline May)

 

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Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare,

And left the flushed print in a poppy there.

 (Francis Thompson)

 

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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.

 (Robert Louis Stevenson)

 

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  The oriole sings in the greening grove

     As if he were half-way waiting,

     The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,

     Timid, and hesitating.

The rain comes down in a torrent sweep

   And the nights smell warm and pinety,

The garden thrives, but the tender shoots

   Are yellow-green and tiny.

Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,

   Streams laugh that erst were quiet,

The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue

   And the woods run mad with riot.

(Paul Laurence Dunbar)

 

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I question not if thrushes sing,

If roses load the air;

Beyond my heart I need not reach

When all is summer there.

(John Vance Cheney)