- 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 pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft
- Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
- With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
- How sweet I roamed from field to field,
- And tasted all the summer's pride,
- Till I the prince of love beheld,
- Who in the sunny beams did glide!
WILLIAM BLAKE, How Sweet I Roamed
The summer was like a green sick dream, or like a silent crazy jungle under glass.