The summer rolls on remorselessly, harsh heat overcoming wasted shade; at such times reading becomes a relief from the unwavering sun, especially lines that reflect the season: midsummer leaching from the page. Here's a glimmer of John Clare, each word offering some cool respite.
There lies a sultry lusciousness around
The far-stretched pomp of summer which the eye
Views with a dazzled gaze - and gladly bounds
Its propects to some pastoral spots that lie
Nestling among the hedge, confining grounds
Where in some nook the haystacks newly made
Scents the smooth level meadow-land around
Whilst underneath the woodland's hazley hedge
The crowding oxen make their swaily beds
And in the dry dyke thronged with rush and sedge
The restless sheep rush in to hide their heads
From the unlost and ever haunting flie
And under every tree's projecting shade
Places as battered as the road is made
The Heat of Noon