🚀 go-pugleaf

Will Dockery wrote:

> 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."

Again, agreed, this is one excellent old school styled poem....