пятница, 22 июля 2011 г.

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Summer
by John Clare
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.

Sweet Summer
by Wayne Jarus
The boats adrift in the harbour
As thoughts in a calm mind
A liquid sun beaming today and forever
We hoard happiness a smile at a time

As thoughts in a calm mind
Finding respite in cool shade
A liquid sun beaming today and forever
Butterflies flutter in a golden haze

Finding respite in cool shade
In this pastel world of light and shadows
Butterflies flutter in a golden haze
And crickets sing in motionless meadows

Oh sweet summer stay and sleep
A liquid sun beaming today and forever
Lingering dreams and afternoons of heat
The boats adrift in the harbour.

Hot Summer Nights
by Mary Hamrick
It haunts me so
those summer nights
in dim lit homes
 where music flows
and tempers flare
and lullabies fill the air.
 I while away the hours
under the electric swell of light,
(pulse-scorched out).
 Bone-idle and coral pink,
this dry spell grills,
but Southern nights do fill me.
 Spider-blue legs peddle tales
as gossips-a-brewing
and roaming by my streets.
 Scuttling through like marsh rabbit,
neighbors wave their charmed hellos.
Feverish and swollen together,
 they inhale the blossoms,
riding high, and move through summer
as the lake declines.
 It haunts me so
those summer nights
in dim lit homes
 where music flows
and tempers flare
and lullabies fill the air.


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