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Featured Poem: The Summer Rain by Henry David Thoreau

Written by Emma Walsh, 20th June 2016

Today marks the first official day of summer and unsurprisingly, it's raining cats and dogs. Thoreau's The Summer Rain seems a most fitting poem for the occasion.

Perhaps it is a tendency to always find the silver lining, but we'd say these rain clouds are the perfect excuse to stay in with a good book, or five.

Even after the good spell of warm weather most of us have been enjoying of late it's disheartening to face a wet, mizzley Monday on this, the first day of summer. Opening our curtains this morning, many of us may have proclaimed: "For shame the sun will never show himself".

But in true 'silver lining' spirit lets not dwell on grey skies but turn to the "richness rare" that blooms in summer showers and follow Thoreau's good example of living in the moment, no matter how rainy. Let Shakespeare and Homer wait while "juster battles are enacted now".


The Summer Rain

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.

Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
If juster battles are enacted now
Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?

Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
If red or black the gods will favor most,
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
Struggling to heave some rock against the host.

Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
For now I've business with this drop of dew,
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower--
I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.

This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use.
A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
And violets quite overtop my shoes.

And now the cordial clouds have shut all in,
And gently swells the wind to say all's well;
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.

I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
But see that globe come rolling down its stem,
Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
And now it sinks into my garment's hem.

Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
My dripping locks--they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.

Henry David Thoreau

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