Poem Sampler

Summer Poems

Poems to make you one with the sun.

Summer Poems
Illustration: Mark McGinnis

Summer Days

Sumer is I-cumin in by Anonymous
Sing, cuccu, nu. Sing, cuccu.
Sing, cuccu. Sing, cuccu, nu.

Bath by Amy Lowell
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.

Morningside Heights, July by William Matthews
Haze. Three student violists boarding
a bus. A clatter of jackhammers.

To Go to Lvov by Adam Zagajewski
To go to Lvov. Which station
for Lvov, if not in a dream, at dawn, when dew

Doing Laundry on Sunday by Brigit Pegeen Kelly
So this is the Sabbath, the stillness
in the garden, magnolia

A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island by Frank O'Hara
The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying “Hey! I've been

For Children

The Swing by Robert Louis Stevenson
How do you like to go up in a swing,
   Up in the air so blue?

Summer in Nature

Country Summer by Léonie Adams
Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,
And top with silver petals traced


At Noon by Reginald Gibbons
The thick-walled room’s cave-darkness,
cool in summer, soothes

Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout by Gary Snyder
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain

More Than Enough by Marge Piercy
The first lily of June opens its red mouth.
All over the sand road where we walk

Insect Life of Florida by Lynda Hull
In those days I thought their endless thrum
   was the great wheel that turned the days, the nights.

One With The Sun by A. F. Moritz
Child
one with the sun

In the Mushroom Summer by David Mason
Colorado turns Kyoto in a shower,
mist in the pines so thick the crows delight

The Lake Isle of Innisfree by William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Baseball

Casey at the Bat by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.

The crowd at the ball game by William Carlos Williams
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly

Summer Nights

Moths by Jennifer O'Grady
Adrift in the liberating, late light
of August, delicate, frivolous

Summer at North Farm by Stephen Kuusisto
Fires, always fires after midnight,
the sun depending in the purple birches

Jet by Tony Hoagland
Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel

Midsummer by Robert Fitzgerald
The adolescent night, breath of the town,
Porchswings and whispers, maple leaves unseen

The Mower to the Glow-Worms by Andrew Marvell
Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late

Gardening

In Defense of Our Overgrown Garden by Matthea Harvey
Last night the apple trees shook and gave each lettuce a heart
Six hard red apples broke through the greenhouse glass and

The Fact of the Garden by Minnie Bruce Pratt
With this rain I am satisfied we will be together
in the spring. Seeds of water on my window glass

Paths by John Montague
We had two gardens.
A real flower garden

The Definition of Gardening by James Tate
Jim just loves to garden, yes he does.
He likes nothing better than to put on

Vespers [In your extended absence, you permit me] by Louise Glück
In your extended absence, you permit me
use of earth, anticipating

Early Cascade by Lucia Perillo
I couldn't have waited. By the time you return
it would have rotted on the vine.

Planting the Meadow by Mary Makofske
I leave the formal garden of schedules
where hours hedge me, clip the errant sprigs

Mowing by Robert Wrigley
Sleepy and suburban at dusk,
I learn again the yard’s

In These Soft Trinities by Patricia Goedicke
Whenever I see two women
       crowned, constellated friends

Bugs

Ants on the Melon by Virginia Hamilton Adair
Once when our blacktop city
was still a topsoil town

The Butterfly’s Dream by Hannah F. Gould
A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
   A butterfly, gaudy and gay;

Wasp by Zbigniew Herbert
      When the honey, fruit and flowery tablecloth were whisked from the
   table in
one sweep, it flew of with a start. Entangled in the suffocating smoke
   of the

The Children by Mark Jarman
The children are hiding among the raspberry canes.
They look big to one another, the garden small.

End of the Summer

Three Songs at the End of Summer by Jane Kenyon
A second crop of hay lies cut
and turned. Five gleaming crows

Last August Hours Before the Year 2000 by Naomi Shihab Nye
Spun silk of mercy,
long-limbed afternoon

Bright Leaf by Ellen Bryant Voigt
Like words put to a song, the bunched tobacco leaves  
are strung along a stick, the women

A Dirge by Christina Rossetti
Why were you born when the snow was falling?
You should have come to the cuckoo’s calling

Originally Published: May 12, 2006

COMMENTS (6)

On May 30, 2007 at 5:08am Russell Cayer wrote:
I especially like the imagery of Sunflakes. It's unusual and cute.

As a New Englander myself, one can deeply appreciate the poetry of Robert Frost. His is captured in a "tone."

Analysis of Baseball: it's also about the hat.

On December 9, 2007 at 5:08pm Christian wrote:
I suggest adding Timothy Steele's Summer to this lineup.

On June 14, 2008 at 1:20pm Chelsea wrote:
Should also add "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer to the baseball section.

On July 23, 2009 at 9:56am Cathy Halley wrote:
I like this Robert Frost firefly poem!

Fireflies in the Garden

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171622

On July 23, 2009 at 1:15pm Edward Mycue wrote:
so MUCH to like, to be drawn by:

--May Swenson's "Strawberrying"
--Diane Ackerman's "Where hot pipes...."
--Frank O'Hara's "The Sun Woke Me"
--Andrew Marvell's "The Mower To The
Glow-Worms"
--Mark Jarman's "The Children"
--Virginia Hamilton Adair's "Ants On The
Melon"
Lynda Hull's "Insect Life Of Florida"
William Matthews' "Morningside Heights,
July"

On August 17, 2009 at 2:34am Robert wrote:
I'm an avid reader of poetry, especially that of the classical poets.
I cannot get to grips with our modern day crop of poets. Where is the flowing cadenze, the depth, the instantaneous
chords which strike ones very soul and spirit bringing the joy and upliftment of
other realms of being? The poets of yore were truly inspired and touched by the angels, just as the great classical music masters were. But todays poets?
They write, in the main, from the head, the intellectual level, not from the depths of the soul.The love of Poetry of course has to be nourished, but at the same time it cannot be purely from the head which does not make a true poet.

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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