To Summer

O Thou who passest thro’ our vallies in
Thy Chariot of the Sun,
Crown’d with the sickle and the corn,
And the wildflower hast thou won.

The fields are white now,
The grain is grown;
Wild flowers bloom
Wherever we own.

Let the shepherd rejoice
And let the river run;
Let the valley and the ocean
Chant like a hymn.

To thee we sing
And we welcome
The summer’s passing
With the song of joy.

• William Blake