british summer time

let us sing a song of spring, of warm and dry yet dappled sky, of evenings gold from touch of bronze, on yonder building scraping high, the sky that has no dampen sprite, no broody brow, no heavy sigh instead a music faint and low, of humming hope within the ears, take heart take heart, in all the years, of changing time of changing sun of changing mood, was there ever so bright a blue?