All the poets fall in love with summer. All the poets get their hearts broken.
A Poem About Summer Love
Have you ever written a poem about summer whilst sitting under the April sun, feeling that just-the-right-kind-of-warm breeze move through your clothes and kiss your skin as your hair flew wildly and so did your heart?
I have.
Here’s my poem about summer days.
A love story with summer.
A sunshine-clad lover.
I have passed a hundred cold nights,
just to have to myself your pretty sights,
once again.
Do you remember my name?
You're not a person, not alive,
but I've been in love since I was five.
I feel your touch in the breeze,
ruffling through my clothes, stay here, please.
Be my childhood. Be my lover.
It's April again, welcome, summer!
-tanu j.
Do you feel alive too when summer arrives in all its glamour and glory, all its happy warmth and loving caress?
It's the onset of spring.
I don't know a thing
about what this summer would bring to me.
Bound to a string, or would I spin free?
Will I let people in, or pull up my shield?
Will I just stay home, or run in a daffodil field?
Will I touch the thorn and feel the sting?
Oh—
someone tell me what would happen this spring?
Will the naked trees regain the flower?
Will I still collect stones to build a tower?
Will I be just as young as I was yesterday?
Or will I grow up a little and find my own way?
Will I love more and await the feeling of rain?
Will I find a reason to smile again?
Will I let go of the past and find my voice to sing?
Maybe I'll be a bit happier this spring?
I try to look as far as my eyes can see,
search for the distant future, hoping I'd find me.
I spent my time in the field all day,
feeling the sunshine right where I lay.
An eagle passed by overhead in the lawn,
caught its food and life goes on.
I sit up, touch my heart to seal the deal.
It's spring, maybe it's time to heal.
-tanu j.
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Poems About Summer Days and Life
“A Psalm of Life”, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Find the full analysis to this poem in this beautiful and very helpful resource here: LitCharts
very nice…❤️