🚀 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

Like I said, look who's talking. 

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

And so it goes.

> ! 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."
...