SUMMER SUN
Great is the sun, and wide he goesThrough empty heaven without repose,And in the blue and glowing daysMore thick than rain he showers his rays.Though closer still the blinds we pullTo keep the shady parlour cool,Yet he will find a chink or twoTo slip his golden fingers through.The dusty attic, spider-clad,He, through the keyhole maketh glad;And through the broken edge of tiles,Into the laddered hayloft smiles.Meantime his golden face aroundHe bares to all the garden ground,And sheds a warm and glittering lookAmong the ivy's inmost nook.Above the hills, along the blue,Round the bright air with footing true,To please the child, to paint the rose,The gardener of the World, he goes.
Great is the sun, and wide he goesThrough empty heaven without repose,And in the blue and glowing daysMore thick than rain he showers his rays.Though closer still the blinds we pullTo keep the shady parlour cool,Yet he will find a chink or twoTo slip his golden fingers through.The dusty attic, spider-clad,He, through the keyhole maketh glad;And through the broken edge of tiles,Into the laddered hayloft smiles.Meantime his golden face aroundHe bares to all the garden ground,And sheds a warm and glittering lookAmong the ivy's inmost nook.Above the hills, along the blue,Round the bright air with footing true,To please the child, to paint the rose,The gardener of the World, he goes.
Great is the sun, and wide he goesThrough empty heaven without repose,And in the blue and glowing daysMore thick than rain he showers his rays.
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose,
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pullTo keep the shady parlour cool,Yet he will find a chink or twoTo slip his golden fingers through.
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic, spider-clad,He, through the keyhole maketh glad;And through the broken edge of tiles,Into the laddered hayloft smiles.
The dusty attic, spider-clad,
He, through the keyhole maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles,
Into the laddered hayloft smiles.
Meantime his golden face aroundHe bares to all the garden ground,And sheds a warm and glittering lookAmong the ivy's inmost nook.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.
Above the hills, along the blue,Round the bright air with footing true,To please the child, to paint the rose,The gardener of the World, he goes.
Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
Robert Louis Stevenson.