I

　　I see the boys of summer in their ruin

　　Lay the gold tithings barren，

　　Setting no store by harvest， freeze the soils；

　　There in their heat the winter floods

　　Of frozen loves they fetch their girls，

　　And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.

　　These boys of light are curdlers in their folly，

　　Sour the boiling honey；

　　The jacks of frost they finger in the hives；

　　There in the sun the frigid threads

　　Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves；

　　The signal moon is zero in their voids.

　　I see the summer children in their mothers

　　Split up the brawned womb's weathers，

　　Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs；

　　There in the deep with quartered shades

　　Of sun and moon they paint their dams

　　As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.

　　I see that from these boys shall men of nothing

　　Stature by seedy shifting，

　　Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts；

　　There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse

　　Of love and light bursts in their throats.

　　O see the pulse of summer in the ice.

　　II

　　But seasons must be challenged or they totter

　　Into a chiming quarter

　　Where， punctual as death， we ring the stars；

　　There， in his night， the black-tongued bells

　　The sleepy man of winter pulls，

　　Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.

　　We are the dark derniers let us summon

　　Death from a summer woman，

　　A muscling life from lovers in their cramp

　　From the fair dead who flush the sea

　　The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp

　　And from the planted womb the man of straw.

　　We summer boys in this four-winded spinning，

　　Green of the seaweeds' iron

　　Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds，

　　Pick the world's ball of wave and froth

　　To choke the deserts with her tides，

　　And comb the county gardens for a wreath.

　　In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly，

　　Heigh ho the blood and berry，

　　And nail the merry squires to the trees；

　　Here love's damp muscle dries and dies

　　Here break a kiss in no love's quarry，

　　O see the poles of promise in the boys.

　　III

　　I see you boys of summer in your ruin.

　　Man in his maggots barren.

　　And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.

　　I am the man your father was.

　　We are the sons of flint and pitch.

　　O see the poles are kissing as they cross.

Dylan Thomas