🚀 go-pugleaf

On Saturday, July 30, 2022 at 2:38:18 PM UTC-4, NancyGene wrote:
> On Saturday, July 30, 2022 at 6:16:29 PM UTC, george...@yahoo.ca wrote: 
>
> > Today's poem on Penny's Poetry Blog: 
> > A July Day, by Eben E. Rexford 
> > [...] 
> > A glory wraps the hills, and seems 
> > To weave an atmosphere of dreams 
> > [...] 
> > https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2022/07/a-july-day-eben-e-rexford.html 
> > 
> > Picture: William Merritt Chase (1849-1916), Summer at Shinnecock Hills, 
> > 1891. Public domain, Wikimedia Commons
> What a boring, sing-song poem

Look who's talking.

You and Michael Pendragon specialize in dreary sing-song, second handed rhymes, Nancy Gene.

HTH and HAND.

! We saw this review of Mr. Rexford's ability as a poet: 
> 
> “Most of his poems are as far on the lugubrious side as are the poems of a certain recent popular poet on the pollyanna, but they are just as bad, and are reminiscent of the poems of Emmeline Grangerford.” 
> 
> “The House of Beadle & Adams and its Dime and Nickel Novels: The Story of a Vanished Literature” by Albert Johannsen (c1950). 
> https://www.ulib.niu.edu/badndp/rexford_eben.html 
> 
> Full poem: 
> 
> "A July Day 
> by Eben Eugene Rexford 
> In idle mood, this happy day, 
> I let the moments drift away; 
> I lie among the tangled grass 
> And watch the crinkling billows pass 
> O'er seas of clover. Like a tide 
> That sets across the meadow wide, 
> The crimson-crested ripples run 
> From isles of shade to shores of sun; 
> And one white lily seems to be 
> A sail upon this summer sea, 
> Blown northward, bringing me, to-day, 
> A fragrant freight from far Cathay. 
> 
> Low as the wind that waves the rose 
> In gardens where the poppy grows, 
> And sweet as bells heard far away, 
> A robin sings his song to-day; 
> Sings softly, by his hidden nest, 
> A little roundelay of rest; 
> And as the wind his dwelling swings 
> He dreams his dream of unfledged wings, 
> While, blending with his song, I hear 
> A brook's low babble, somewhere near.
> A glory wraps the hills, and seems 
> To weave an atmosphere of dreams
> About the mountain's kingly crest 
> As sinks the sun adown the west. 
> Earth seems to sit with folded hands 
> In peace he only understands 
> Who has no care, no vain regret, 
> No sorrow he would fain forget, 
> And like a child upon her breast 
> I lie, this happy day, and rest. 
> 
> The " green things growing " whisper me 
> Of many an earth-old mystery; 
> Of blossoms hiding in the mold, 
> And what the acorn-cups enfold; 
> Of life unseen by eyes too dim 
> To look through Nature up to Him 
> Who writes the poem of the year 
> For human heart, and eye, and ear. 
> 
> O summer day, surpassing fair, 
> With hints of heaven in earth and air, 
> Not long I keep you in my hold — 
> The book is closed — the tale is told. 
> The valley fills with amber mist; 
> The sky is gold and amethyst. 
> Soft, soft and low, and silver clear 
> The robin's vesper hymn I hear, 
> And see the stars lit, one by one. 
> The happy summer day is done."