A sweltering summer day in a folded valley, the air thick with sun and scent. The speaker is held in stillness—the tall trees don’t move—but the deep grass is alive, sighing and rustling, bending toward them as if bowing or calling. It brushes their face like a living thing, and its whisper breaks the golden quiet with a single, chilling line: winter is on its way. The mood is dreamlike and a little troubling. The heat feels heavy, almost hypnotic, and the grass’s beckoning is both inviting and eerie. The poem catches that moment when beauty sharpens into an ache because you sense its ending. It’s not just a landscape—it’s a quiet nudge about change and the passing of time, spoken in the voice of the very season that’s about to vanish.
The Summer Sun Shone Round Me — Summary
THE summer sun shone round me, The folded valley lay In a stream of sun and odour, That sultry summer day.
The tall trees stood in the sunlight As still as still could be, But the deep grass sighed and rustled And bowed and beckoned me.
The deep grass moved and whispered And bowed and brushed my face. It whispered in the sunshine: "The winter comes apace."