To Summer

    Thy strength， curb¹ thy fierce steeds， allay² the heat

    That flames from their large nostrils³！ thou， O Summer，

    Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent， and oft

    Beneath our oaks hast slept， while we beheld⁴

    With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

    Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard

    Thy voice， when noon upon his fervid⁵ 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 bards⁶ are fam'd who strike the silver wire：

    Our youth are bolder than the southern swains：

    Our maidens⁷ fairer in the sprightly⁸ dance：

    We lack not songs， nor instruments of joy，

    Nor echoes sweet， nor waters clear as heaven，

    Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.