Thanks for a Summer's Day

O perfect light which shade away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o'er the day,
Another o'er the night.

Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
More vively does appear,
Nor at mid-day unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear.

The shadow of the earth anon
Removes and drawis by,
Syne in the east, when it is gone,
Appears a clearer sky.

Which soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing, and the snipe,
And tune their song like Nature's clerks,
O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.

But every bold nocturnal beast
No longer may abide,
They hie away both maist and least,
Themselves in house to hide.

The golden globe incontinent
Sets up his shining head,
And o'er the earth and firmament
Displays his beams abroad.

For joy the birds with boulden throats,
Against his visage sheen,
Take up their kindly music notes
In woods and gardens green.

Upbraids the careful husbandman,
His corn and vines to see,
And every timeous artisan
In booths works busily.

The pastor quits the slothful sleep,
And passes forth with speed,
His little camow-nosed sheep,
And rowting kye to feed.

The passenger, from perils sure,
Goes gladly forth the way,
Brief, every living creäture
Takes comfort of the day.

The misty reek, the clouds of rain
From tops of mountain skails,
Clear are the highest hills and plain,
The vapours take the vales.

Begaired is the sapphire pend
With spraings of scarlet hue;
And preciously from end to end,
Damasked white and blue.

The ample heaven, of fabric sure,
In clearness does surpass
The crystal and the silver, pure
As clearest polish'd glass.

The time so tranquil is and clear,
That nowhere shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,
The air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,
Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or steir.

The rivers fresh, the caller streams,
O'er rocks can swiftly rin,
The water clear like crystal beams,
And makes a pleasant din.

Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand;
The waves, that woltering wont to be,
Are stable like the land.

So silent is the cessile air,
That every cry and call,
The hills and dales, and forest fair,
Again repeats them all.

The clogged busy humming bees,
That never think to drown,
On flowers and flourishes of trees,
Collect their liquor brown.

The sun most like a speedy post
With ardent course ascends;
The beauty of our heavenly host
Up to our zenith tends.

The breathless flocks draw to the shade
And freshure of their fauld;
The startling nolt, as they were mad,
Run to the rivers cauld.

The herds beneath some leafy trees,
Amidst the flowers they lie;
The stable ships upon the seas
Tend up their sails to dry.

The hart, the hind, the fallow-deer,
Are tapish'd at their rest;
The fowls and birds that made thee beare,
Prepare their pretty nest.

The rayons dure descending down,
All kindle in a gleid;
In city, nor in burrough town,
May none set forth their head.

Back from the blue pavemented whun,
And from ilk plaster wall,
The hot reflexing of the sun
Inflames the air and all.

The labourers that timely rose,
All weary, faint, and weak,
For heat down to their houses goes,
Noon-meat and sleep to take.

The caller wine in cave is sought,
Men's brothing breasts to cool;
The water cold and clear is brought,
And sallads steeped in ule.

With gilded eyes and open wings,
The cock his courage shows;
With claps of joy his breast he dings,
And twenty times he crows.

The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect,
Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.

Now noon is gone--gone is mid-day,
The heat does slake at last,
The sun descends down west away,
For three o'clock is past.

The rayons of the sun we see
Diminish in their strength,
The shade of every tower and tree
Extended is in length.

Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down,
The reek throws up right in the air,
From every tower and town.

The mavis and the philomeen,
The starling whistles loud,
The cushats on the branches green,
Full quietly they crood.

The gloamin comes, the clay is spent,
The sun goes out of sight,
And painted is the occident
With purple sanguine bright.

The scarlet nor the golden thread,
Who would their beauty try,
Are nothing like the colour red
And beauty of the sky.

What pleasure then to walk and see,
Endlong a river clear,
The perfect form of every tree
Within the deep appear.

The salmon out of cruives and creels
Uphauled into scouts;
The bells and circles on the weills,
Through leaping of the trouts.

O sure it were a seemly thing,
While all is still and calm,
The praise of God to play and sing
With trumpet and with shalm.

Through all the land great is the gild
Of rustic folks that cry;
Of bleating sheep, from they be fill'd,
Of calves and rowting kye.

All labourers draw home at even,
And can to others say,
Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
Who sent this summer day.