Archives For Summer

 

The Summer Rain
Henry David Thoreau

My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,
‘Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
And will not mind to hit their proper targe.
Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men.

Continue Reading…

 

On the Grasshopper and the Cricket
John Keats

THE POETRY of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
In summer luxury,—he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.


 

“Further in Summer Than the Birds”
Emily Dickinson

Further in Summer than the Birds
Pathetic from the Grass
A minor Nation celebrates
Its unobtrusive Mass.

No Ordinance be seen
So gradual the Grace
A pensive Custom it becomes
Enlarging Loneliness.

Antiquest felt at Noon
When August burning low
Arise this spectral Canticle
Repose to typify

Remit as yet no Grace
No Furrow on the Glow
Yet a Druidic Difference
Enhances Nature now

 

Summer
by John Clare
[ Found in
The Works of John Clare ]

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover’s breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover’s breast;
I’ll lean upon her breast and I’ll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o’sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

 

We’re Giving Away Over $250 of
Free books This Summer!!!

Summer is right around the corner, the perfect time to catch up on reading some great books.  And we here at the ERB want to jump start your summer reading by giving you five books (of your choice)!

Invite your friends (or yourself) to a FREE email subscription to The Englewood Review, and you and any friends who activate their subscription will be entered to win five free books from the list at the bottom of this page [You may need to click the “Read the rest of this entry…” link] !

The books we are giving away are titles that we have reviewed over the last few years, or ones that slipped through the cracks and never got reviewed.

**** Deadline Extended!!!  ****
Enter before NOON on Thurs. June 17…

On June 17, we will pick 5 winners.  The first name drawn will get to choose 5 books, the 2nd person drawn will get to choose 5 from the remaining books and so on through the 5th place winner, who will get to pick 5 titles from the remaining 11.

[ CLICK HERE TO ENTER THE CONTEST… ]

 

“Woof of the Sun”
Henry David Thoreau

(1817-1862)

 

Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze,
Woven of Nature’s richest stuffs,
Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea,
Last conquest of the eye;
Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust,
Aerial surf upon the shores of earth,
Ethereal estuary, frith of light,
Breakers of air, billows of heat,
Fine summer spray on inland seas;
Bird of the sun, transparent–winged
Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned,
From hearth or stubble rising without song;
Establish thy serenity o’er the fields.

 

“The Vast Miracle of Living”

 

A Review of
Summer World: A Season of Bounty.
by Bernd Heinrich.

 Reviewed by Brent Aldrich

 

Summer World: A Season of Bounty.
Bernd Heinrich.
Hardcover: Ecco Books, 2009.
Buy now: [ Doulos Christou Books $22 ]  [ Amazon ]

 

It is the beginning of May as I am writing, with the last frost date here in Indiana next week, and plans for planting all of the summer crops this weekend in the gardens. The weeks leading up to this time have involved sorting through last year’s saved seeds, starting some plants indoors, turning over the plots from last year, and breaking some new ground. There has been more rain than dry, so the ground has been soft, sometimes to the point of standing in mud and attempting to remove the sod. Along with this preparation for the garden, there are other events I mark the beginning of summer with, notably the first mow of the year, and the dropping of flowers from the Tulip trees which should happen in about two weeks (I actually observed a tree full of leaves earlier this morning). Marking the passage of time with the natural rhythms of seasons, weather, and plants may be one of the first and most substantial ways to connect with our local places; as the summer begins, Bernd Heinrich’s new book Summer World: A Season of Bounty describes this biologist’s engagement with the season, focused most specifically around two summers at his home in Vermont and cabin in Maine.

       Heinrich begins looking “at the ingenuity of life more locally, as life-forms interact with one another … I wanted to pursue the interesting and often puzzling, without taking the seemingly prosaic for granted.” These observations play out through the book through a diversity of life, several species of insects and birds, as well as plants, toads, and beavers. One of the joys of this book is the acuity with which Heinrich describes what Wendell Berry has called “the nearness / of the world, its vastness, / its vast variousness, far and near” (“Words” from Given).

Continue Reading…

 

“Summer Moods”
John Clare
1793-1864

 

I love at eventide to walk alone
Down narrow lanes o’erhung with dewy thorn
Where from the long grass underneath the snail
Jet black creeps out and sprouts his timid horn.
I love to muse o’er meadows newly mown
Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air
Where bees search round with sad and weary drone
In vain for flowers that bloomed but newly there,
While in the juicey corn the hidden quail
Cries ‘wet my foot’ and hid as thoughts unborn
The fairy like and seldom-seen land rail
Utters ‘craik craik’ like voices underground
Right glad to meet the evenings dewy veil
And see the light fade into glooms around.