Link of the week: Hungarian meets swing.

To Summer - William Blake (This poem is in the public domain) O Thou who passest thro’ our vallies in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer, Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair. Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream: Our vallies love the Summer in his pride. (see more .. )

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