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nrcQGOi

When moderns say that rhythm’s passed,
And rhyming verse is trite,
What would the great Longfellow say
About that arrow’s flight?

Such talk is like an acid rain
That falls on Dickinson,
And kills her bees and Kilmer’s trees;
Coats Kipling’s dawning sun.

That dart is thrown at Shakespeare, too
And all the masters past
By men who pose as poets when
It’s prose their work is classed.

And so I’ll stand as close I can
To Byron, Coleridge, Keats
I’ll hold their hats or open doors
Or drive them through the streets.

And I’ll not care when prose lines up
In stanzas in pretense,
Or critics cough or prosers scorn
And publishers fold tents.

I cannot ever bothered be
When men my verse oppose.
They praise the naked emperor,
And criticize my clothes.

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photo by Jay Simmons at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nrcQGOi/landscape

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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……..Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I hear heaped praise, like waves upon the shore,
And in its falling, hints to me of more –
Of gods who disagree, a distant thunder.
All I can do is read… and read – in wonder! 

It’s straight when carpenter has found his line,
Then varies naught from what’s both true and fine.
Longfellow, too, laid down the plumb and chalked it,
Then word by word and rhyme by rhyme, he walked it. 

So often did his heart leap to his throat!
So many memorable lines we know and quote!
For his poetic gift and gait, we’re grateful.
Why thus must others be so mean and hateful? 

A critic’s dab, but people’s love – deluge.
When all love Christmas, what think we of Scrooge?
The critics cannot write; they fire a mortar.
It’s pencil envy; theirs is so much shorter.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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