I just love Poe. The only other person I know who could put words in that sort of pattern was Cole Porter. What talent.
The Arrow and the Song By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow I shot an arrow into the air; It fell to earth, I knew not where: For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air; It fell to earth, I knew not where: For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. I have been riking my brain trying to remember the author of this poem .I couldn't believe I didn't remember his name.I finally typed in search the first line and got it.It has always been my favorite as if you have a true friend you will always have them as one even if lost they are still your friend.
My favorite poem, I think is rather a book. John Brown's Body by Stephen Vincent Benet is a book about the American civil war, done for the most part in narrative poetry. I like best, I think the following lines that give a feel of the deep South of the past. "It is not lucky to dream such stuff Dreaming men are haunted men' Though Wingates face looked lucky enough To any eye that had seen him then. Riding back through the Georgia fall To the wide pillared porch of Wingate Hall. Fall of the possum, fall of the 'coon And the lop-eared hound-dog baying the moon. Fall that is neither bitter nor swift But a brown girl bearing an idle gift, A brown seed kernal that splits apart And shows the summer yet in its heart, A smokiness so vague in the air You feel it rather than see it there. A brief white rime on the red clay road And slow mules creaking a lazy load Through endless acres of afternoon A pine cone fire and a banjo tune And a julip mixed with a silver spoon. Your noons are hot, your nights deep-starred, There is honeysuckle still in the yard, Fall of the quail and the firefly-glows And the pot-pourri of the rambler-rose, Fall that brings no promise of snows---
Love it, DR. Ya know, Glenda, whenever I see that Longfellow arrow poem, I think of a piece of doggerl I saw years and years ago. "I shot an arrow into the air; It fell to earth, I knew not where: Until I heard a moose roar.
