First Day of Summer, 2022

Summer
by John Clare (1793-1864)

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.

The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear

That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

There Lives a Glory in These Sweet June Days

June

There lives a glory in these sweet June days 
Such as I found not in the days gone by, 
A kindlier meaning in the unclouded sky, 
A tenderer whisper in the woodland ways; 
And I have understanding of the lays, 
The birds are singing, forasmuch as I 
Have learned how love avails to satisfy 
A man's whole heart, and fills his lips with praise. 

—Percy C. Ainsworth (1873-1909)