One great poem with a nature emphasis for summer is “Summer in the South” by Paul Laurence Dunbar:

 The oriole sings in the greening grove
     As if he were half-way waiting,                                                   IMG_0041
     The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,
     Timid, and hesitating.
The rain comes down in a torrent sweep
   And the nights smell warm and pinety,
The garden thrives, but the tender shoots
   Are yellow-green and tiny.
Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,
   Streams laugh that erst were quiet,
The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue
   And the woods run mad with riot.                                                                                Photo Courtesy:  Kathryn Cunningham

 
 

……as a Chicago Fan, I print this with trepidation.  BUT, it

IS a poetry/summer classic!   kc

 Another poem, a more cultural one that is classic Americana, is “Casey at the Bat” by E. L. Thayer:

A Ballad of the Republic, Sung in the Year 1888

The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that—

We’d put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

 Backyard Baseball, Baseball Cards

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,Backyard Baseball, Baseball Cards

And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.

“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted some one on the stand;

And it’s likely they’d have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clinched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,Backyard Baseball, Baseball Cards
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.