To Summer By William Blake

O Thou who passest thro’ our vallies in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils!
thou, O Summer,Oft pitched’st 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 carRode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs 
Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our vallies 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.