O thou who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent 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 fam'd 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.
on a personal note: Though I salute the sun in my own fashion, I don’t join ranks with those who slather on the lotion and make human offerings of themselves. We book worms know that too much exposure to heat and light will cause us to shrivel up and die. That’s why our preferred hang-outs are the cool and shady depths of libraries, museums and book-stores.
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent 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 fam'd 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.
Some thoughts…
on this poem: My city’s undergoing a rare heat wave. The a.c. is working, but it doesn’t seem to be having much of an effect. The choices are either go outside and roast, or stay inside and steam. It seems a good opportunity to see what the poets have to say about this, the brightest season of all.
curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils!
That flames from their large nostrils!
Nice use of classical allusion here. Apollo, the Greek god of the sun, rode his chariot drawn by fiery horses across the sky, causing the play of day and night through this daily drive-by. The idea is reiterated in ‘noon upon his fervid car’.
...thou,O Summer,
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent
Oft pitched'st here thy goldent tent
The image of summer as regent, lord of all he sees. The image of royal majesty is repeated in ‘throw thy silk draperies off’.
…Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
Summer is equated with the prime of the seasonal cycle, equated with youth at the zenith of its passion and vitality.
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