Re: PPB: A July Day / Eben E. Rexford

Will Dockery wrote:
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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:
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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
[...]
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https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2022/07/a-july-day-eben-e-rexford.html

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Picture: William Merritt Chase (1849-1916), Summer at Shinnecock

Hills,

1891. Public domain, Wikimedia Commons

What a boring, sing-song poem

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Look who's talking.

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

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HTH and HAND.

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! We saw this review of Mr. Rexford's ability as a poet:

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“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.”
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“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
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Full poem:
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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."

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