Poem Lake | Page 4 | The Greatest Poems of All Time

Summer for thee, grant I may be Summer for thee, grant I may be When Summer days are flown! Thy music still, when Whipporwill And Oriole — are done! For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb And row my blossoms o'er! Pray gather me —... Poet:	Summer has two Beginnings — Summer has two Beginnings — Beginning once in June — Beginning in October Affectingly again — Without, perhaps, the Riot But graphicker for Grace — As finer is a going Than a remaining... Poet:	Summer is shorter than any one — Summer is shorter than any one — Life is shorter than Summer — Seventy Years is spent as quick As an only Dollar — Sorrow — now — is polite — and stays — See how well we spurn him — Equally to abhor... Poet:	Summer Shower A drop fell on the apple tree, Another on the roof ; A half a dozen kissed the eaves, And made the gables laugh. A few went out to help the... Poet:
Summer — we all have seen — Summer — we all have seen — A few of us — believed — A few — the more aspiring Unquestionably loved — But Summer does not care — She goes her spacious way As eligible as the moon To our... Poet:	A Summer's Day Poet:	Talk not to me of Summer Trees Talk not to me of Summer Trees The foliage of the mind A Tabernacle is for Birds Of no corporeal kind And winds do go that way at noon To their Ethereal Homes Whose Bugles call the least of us ... Poet:	The last of Summer is Delight — The last of Summer is Delight — Deterred by Retrospect. 'Tis Ecstasy's revealed Review — Enchantment's Syndicate. To meet it — nameless as it is — Without celestial Mail — Audacious as without a... Poet:
The One who could repeat the Summer day — The One who could repeat the Summer day — Were greater than itself — though He Minutest of Mankind should be — And He — could reproduce the Sun — At period of going down — The Lingering — and the Stain — I mean... Poet:	There came a Day at Summer's full, There came a Day at Summer's full, Entirely for me — I thought that such were for the Saints, Where Resurrections — be — The Sun, as common, went abroad, The flowers, accustomed, blew, As if no soul... Poet: