By William Blake
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 pitched'st here thy goldent tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are fam'd who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
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The summer solstice took place on Thursday, which was also the first day we passed 80 degrees on the thermometer. I spent a lot of it watching baseball -- some of the Mariners game in the morning while doing chores, most of the Orioles game in the afternoon as they beat the Yankees and set a major league division streak record, and some of the Cardinals-Giants game at Rickwood Field in honor of the Negro Leagues and Willie Mays, along with all the tributes within and around the broadcast.
Otherwise, I talked to my Thursday night chat group for a couple of hours, watched the new (and extremely bloody) episode of The Boys, and took two walks -- one in the evening on the dock, where we saw four families of wood and mallard ducklings ranging in age from a few days old to nearly adult, and one in the late afternoon to the beach at Idylwood Park, where the eagles were in the air, the geese were in the lake, and there were people from all over swimming, diving, floating, and boating:
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