Neruda

Neruda has poems for every season--here's another for summer, this excerpt is from his Portuguese poem "Morning [Love Sonnet XXVII]" which you can read here:

Naked you are simple as one of your hands;

Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round.

You've moon-lines, apple pathways

Naked you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked you are blue as a night in Cuba;

You've vines and stars in your hair.

Naked you are spacious and yellow

As summer in a golden church. [...]

Neruda

Let's pause and take in a moment of summery, beautiful Chilean Neruda [1904-1973]--an excerpt from his "Poem: XVII", you can read the rest here. It calls to mind the famous flower line from Thomas Gray's 1751 "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard": 
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, /And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 

The more poetry one has absorbed and loved, the greater the lines echo in the future. Here's the Neruda, from one of his famous pieces:

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body. [...]

Hood

The hot glaze of summer is a time to enjoy the present. Languor, naps, milk and fruit smoothies all factor in. We must remember to mark the fruit seasons, enjoying the raspberries that are found now. This is a time for peaches, watermelon and honeydew. A simple, slow pace is a must. The wise inure themselves to time and fate and take everything as it comes. Life isn't a narrative or a judgment sheet, it simply is. 

In the heart, we all can be whoever we wish to be, and live where we wish to. At dawn, exploring summer nature is a great, worthwhile trek to make. The cool and dim light make it even better. Long treks outside are often too difficult during the heat and sun, and will be easier in autumn. Nothing can be forced; it's never worth it. 

One great little excerpt from the British Thomas Hood's [1799-1845] poem "I remember, I remember". It has an essence of the current season that's quite lovely, read the rest here:

[...]I remember, I rememberThe roses, red and white,The violets, and the lily-cups—Those flowers made of light!The lilacs where the robin built,And where my brother setThe laburnum on his birthday,—The tree is living yet!

I remember, I rememberWhere I was used to swing,And thought the air must rush as freshTo swallows on the wing;My spirit flew in feathers thenThat is so heavy now,And summer pools could hardly coolThe fever on my brow

[...]

Burns

Poetry is something personal and private, often it resounds differently to different people. It as unique as fingerprints. Old books of verse, even those for children, are often worth reading. Life's few objects should be chosen with care. Donate your excess and be sure your life is as close to ideal and simple as possible.

One example of a great old book of verse, for adults to read and of course for kids is the 1904 book Poems Every Child Should Know, read it all here, edited by Mary Burt. This excerpt below is from Robert Burns [1759-1796], the famous Scottish poet. It's an excellent way to improve and expand horizons on reading and language. Understanding that every language changes and how to interpret new or oddly spelled words in context is a great skill. The imagery is incredible as well.

To a Mountain Daisy,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786

[...]

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield,But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,Sweet floweret of the rural shade!By love's simplicity betrayed,And guileless trust,Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laidLow i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!Unskilful he to note the cardOf prudent lore,Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,And whelm him o'er![...]

Spenser

Spenser [1552-1599] has some great work outside his seminal Faerie Queene. His Amoretti and Epithalamion include beautiful lines. You can read it all here. I especially like one sonnet--read it aloud or in your head and it's easier to pick up and read his style of older English:


SONNET. III.

THE souerayne beauty which I doo admyre,
  witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed:
  the light wherof hath kindled heauenly fyre,
  in my fraile spirit by her from basenesse raysed.
That being now with her huge brightnesse dazed,
  base thing I can no more endure to view:
  but looking still on her I stand amazed,
  at wondrous sight of so celestiall hew.
So when my toung would speak her praises dew,
  it stopped is with thoughts astonishment:
  and when my pen would write her titles true,
  it rauisht is with fancies wonderment:
Yet in my hart I then both speake and write,
  the wonder that my wit cannot endite.

Tolkien

Every genre has greats, people who surpass their labels and become icons. JRR Tolkien is one of them; his Hobbit and Lord of the Rings series are great works that create an English-based medieval inspired mythology for ancient Albion. His language is very interesting and often intensely moving. He showcases a type of pre-modern poeticism that reaches out to our love of the past and our desire for a simpler, older lost world.

There's a sense of bronze age majesty and power. There are a million ways to look at him: in terms of sociology, languages and language creation, romance and love, friendship and loyalty, the burden of ruling, evil and danger, adventure and life's final stages. Be sure to check out all the famous illustrations of his work, from Tolkien's actual personal art to Ted Nasmith's famous pictures [of Luthien especially, the Nazgul and the black tower with the eye, and the Grey Havens]. There is also Alan Lee's work, the classic Greg & Tim Hildebrandt to the black and white lines of Frank Franzetta.

Many people know the famous poem he includes, it makes one think of Robert Frost in a way:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Here's an excerpt from the world of Lothlorien in Lord of the Rings:

Even as they spoke, they saw, as if she came in answer to their words, the Lady Galadriel approaching. Tall and white and fair she walked beneath the trees. She spoke no word, but beckoned to them

            Turning aside, she led them to the southern slopes of the hill of Cras Galadhon, and passing through a high green hedge they came into an enclosed garden. No trees grew there, and it lay open to the sky. The evening star had risen and was shining with white fire above the western woods. Down a long flight of steps the Lady went into the deep hollow, through which ran murmuring the silver stream that issued from the fountain on the hill. At the bottom, upon a low pedestal carved like a branching tree, stood a basin of silver, wide and shallow, and beside it stood a silver ewer.

            With water from the stream Galadriel filled the basin to the brim, and breathed on it, and when the water was still again she spoke. “Here is the Mirror of Galadriel,” she said. “I have brought you here so you may look in it, if you will.”

            The air was very still, and the dell was dark, and the Elf-lady beside him was tall and pale. 

Spenser

One great old text to read is the British poet Spenser's [1552-1599] epic poem The Faerie Queene. You can read Vol. 1 here with notes below each stanza to help translate its language. It was considered to have quaint, antique language at the time it was written--much like the spooky, atmospheric short stories of M.R. James.

Here's an excerpt of Spenser, it has a great sense of the beauty of nature from Canto VI, Vol. 1:

  But he halfe discontent, mote nathelesse
 Himselfe appease, and issewd forth on shore:
     The ioyes whereof, and happie fruitfulnesse,
 Such as he saw, she gan him lay before,
     And all though pleasant, yet she made much more:
 The fields did laugh, the flowres did freshly spring,
     The trees did bud, and earely blossomes bore,
 And all the quire of birds did sweetly sing,
   And told that gardins pleasures in their caroling.


Here's a more modern look for those who need it easier on the eyes:

But he, half discontent, might nevertheless
Calm himself, and issued for on shore:
The joys whereof, and happy fruitfulness,
Such as he say, as he considered her,
And all though pleasant, yet she made much more pleasantries:
The fields did laugh, the flowers did freshly spring,
The trees did bud, and early blossoms bloomed,
And all the choir of birds did sweetly sing,
And told of that garden's pleasures in their caroling.