In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
----------

November
by Wilson MacDonald

Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
  For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
  The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire.
  And, lest that migrant choir
Should wing away all music from the land,
  By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
And that cold passion of her choric sand
  Shall to my muse belong.
This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
  Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
  Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
  And where even now I hear
The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
  In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
  A strange delight I feel.
I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
  The imp of April and the child of May,
The modest maid of June with her soft answer
  To every wooing wind that blew her way.
  And now, this autumn day,
When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
  And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
  Plods by me in a dream.
Let others pour their opulence of roses
  To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
  In grateful love about my simple flower.
  While comrade singers shower
With wonderment of word and garish phrase
  The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
I rest content to twine mine austere bays
  About November’s brow.
Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
  Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
  Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
  Here, where the black leaf cowers
Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
  Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
  Of spring’s new chorus here.
Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
  Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
  Until the gripping air is like a vice.
  The year hath tossed her dice
And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
  Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
  A wounded pheasant dies.
And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
  The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
  In all this frosty garden of the dead.
  The quail, to hardship bred,
Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
  And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
  Leaps from her peaceful lair.
This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
  On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
  And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
  And the last warmth benumbs.
I know the road she walks to greet her lord
  By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
  Of dead leaves in distress?
O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
  Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
  When all the world is hungry for a song,
  And nights are strange and long,
That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
  To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
For God Himself hath set my song apart
  To praise His worlds unsung.
----------

Some critical views:

“It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald

“more popular with the general public than with critics.”
https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald

On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 7:30:34 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
> ----------
>
> November
> by Wilson MacDonald
>
> Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
>   For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
> That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
>   The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire.
>   And, lest that migrant choir
> Should wing away all music from the land,
>   By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
> And that cold passion of her choric sand
>   Shall to my muse belong.
>
> This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
>   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
>   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
>   And where even now I hear
> The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
>   In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
> And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
>   A strange delight I feel.
>
> I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
>   The imp of April and the child of May,
> The modest maid of June with her soft answer
>   To every wooing wind that blew her way.
>   And now, this autumn day,
> When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
>   And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
> A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
>   Plods by me in a dream.
>
> Let others pour their opulence of roses
>   To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
> Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
>   In grateful love about my simple flower.
>   While comrade singers shower
> With wonderment of word and garish phrase
>   The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
> I rest content to twine mine austere bays
>   About November’s brow.
>
> Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
>   Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
> And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
>   Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
>   Here, where the black leaf cowers
> Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
>   Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
> And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
>   Of spring’s new chorus here.
>
> Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
>   Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
> The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
>   Until the gripping air is like a vice.
>   The year hath tossed her dice
> And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
>   Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
> And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
>   A wounded pheasant dies.
>
> And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
>   The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
> The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
>   In all this frosty garden of the dead.
>   The quail, to hardship bred,
> Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
>   And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
> Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
>   Leaps from her peaceful lair.
>
> This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
>   On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
> Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
>   And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
>   And the last warmth benumbs.
> I know the road she walks to greet her lord
>   By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
> Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
>   Of dead leaves in distress?
>
> O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
>   Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
> So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
>   When all the world is hungry for a song,
>   And nights are strange and long,
> That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
>   To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
> For God Himself hath set my song apart
>   To praise His worlds unsung.
> ----------
>
> Some critical views:
>
> “It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
> https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald
>
> “more popular with the general public than with critics.”
> https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald

We wonder how many people have "Pugsley" as a middle name?

On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 10:32:49 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 7:30:34 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
> > ----------
> >
> > November
> > by Wilson MacDonald
> >
> > Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
> >   For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
> > That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
> >   The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire.
> >   And, lest that migrant choir
> > Should wing away all music from the land,
> >   By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
> > And that cold passion of her choric sand
> >   Shall to my muse belong.
> >
> > This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
> >   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> > These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
> >   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
> >   And where even now I hear
> > The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
> >   In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
> > And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
> >   A strange delight I feel.
> >
> > I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
> >   The imp of April and the child of May,
> > The modest maid of June with her soft answer
> >   To every wooing wind that blew her way.
> >   And now, this autumn day,
> > When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
> >   And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
> > A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
> >   Plods by me in a dream.
> >
> > Let others pour their opulence of roses
> >   To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
> > Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
> >   In grateful love about my simple flower.
> >   While comrade singers shower
> > With wonderment of word and garish phrase
> >   The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
> > I rest content to twine mine austere bays
> >   About November’s brow.
> >
> > Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
> >   Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
> > And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
> >   Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
> >   Here, where the black leaf cowers
> > Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
> >   Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
> > And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
> >   Of spring’s new chorus here.
> >
> > Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
> >   Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
> > The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
> >   Until the gripping air is like a vice.
> >   The year hath tossed her dice
> > And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
> >   Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
> > And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
> >   A wounded pheasant dies.
> >
> > And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
> >   The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
> > The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
> >   In all this frosty garden of the dead.
> >   The quail, to hardship bred,
> > Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
> >   And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
> > Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
> >   Leaps from her peaceful lair.
> >
> > This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
> >   On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
> > Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
> >   And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
> >   And the last warmth benumbs.
> > I know the road she walks to greet her lord
> >   By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
> > Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
> >   Of dead leaves in distress?
> >
> > O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
> >   Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
> > So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
> >   When all the world is hungry for a song,
> >   And nights are strange and long,
> > That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
> >   To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
> > For God Himself hath set my song apart
> >   To praise His worlds unsung.
> > ----------
> >
> > Some critical views:
> >
> > “It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
> > https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald
> >
> > “more popular with the general public than with critics.”
> > https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald
> We wonder how many people have "Pugsley" as a middle name?

We wish that George Dance would cease copying the poems we find and the research we do on them. Evidently he then adds the poems and our research to his blaaarrrgghh (which we do not visit). We don't even open his posts. We are going to send the Mounties to his apartment to see how stout hearted a man he is when confronted with evidence.

On Sunday, November 19, 2023 at 12:00:41 AM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 10:32:49 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 7:30:34 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
> > > ----------
> > >
> > > November
> > > by Wilson MacDonald
> > >
> > > Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
> > >   For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
> > > That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
> > >   The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire.
> > >   And, lest that migrant choir
> > > Should wing away all music from the land,
> > >   By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
> > > And that cold passion of her choric sand
> > >   Shall to my muse belong.
> > >
> > > This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
> > >   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> > > These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
> > >   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
> > >   And where even now I hear
> > > The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
> > >   In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
> > > And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
> > >   A strange delight I feel.
> > >
> > > I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
> > >   The imp of April and the child of May,
> > > The modest maid of June with her soft answer
> > >   To every wooing wind that blew her way.
> > >   And now, this autumn day,
> > > When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
> > >   And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
> > > A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
> > >   Plods by me in a dream.
> > >
> > > Let others pour their opulence of roses
> > >   To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
> > > Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
> > >   In grateful love about my simple flower.
> > >   While comrade singers shower
> > > With wonderment of word and garish phrase
> > >   The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
> > > I rest content to twine mine austere bays
> > >   About November’s brow.
> > >
> > > Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
> > >   Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
> > > And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
> > >   Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
> > >   Here, where the black leaf cowers
> > > Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
> > >   Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
> > > And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
> > >   Of spring’s new chorus here.
> > >
> > > Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
> > >   Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
> > > The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
> > >   Until the gripping air is like a vice.
> > >   The year hath tossed her dice
> > > And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
> > >   Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
> > > And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
> > >   A wounded pheasant dies.
> > >
> > > And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
> > >   The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
> > > The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
> > >   In all this frosty garden of the dead.
> > >   The quail, to hardship bred,
> > > Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
> > >   And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
> > > Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
> > >   Leaps from her peaceful lair.
> > >
> > > This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
> > >   On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
> > > Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
> > >   And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
> > >   And the last warmth benumbs.
> > > I know the road she walks to greet her lord
> > >   By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
> > > Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
> > >   Of dead leaves in distress?
> > >
> > > O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
> > >   Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
> > > So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
> > >   When all the world is hungry for a song,
> > >   And nights are strange and long,
> > > That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
> > >   To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
> > > For God Himself hath set my song apart
> > >   To praise His worlds unsung.
> > > ----------
> > >
> > > Some critical views:
> > >
> > > “It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
> > > https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald
> > >
> > > “more popular with the general public than with critics.”
> > > https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald
> > We wonder how many people have "Pugsley" as a middle name?
> We wish that George Dance would cease copying the poems we find and the research we do on them. Evidently he then adds the poems and our research to his blaaarrrgghh (which we do not visit). We don't even open his posts. We are going to send the Mounties to his apartment to see how stout hearted a man he is when confronted with evidence.

Another of the old poems that we found. MacDonald did not have a farm or a hamburger franchise.

On Monday, December 11, 2023 at 8:21:27 AM UTC-6, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> On Sunday, December 10, 2023 at 3:35:31 PM UTC-5, NancyGene wrote:
> > On Wednesday, December 6, 2023 at 1:36:51 PM UTC-8, NancyGene wrote:
> > > On Sunday, November 19, 2023 at 12:00:41 AM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 10:32:49 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 7:30:34 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > > In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
> > > > > > ----------
> > > > > >
> > > > > > November
> > > > > > by Wilson MacDonald
> > > > > >
> > > > > > Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
> > > > > >   For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
> > > > > > That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
> > > > > >   The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire.
> > > > > >   And, lest that migrant choir
> > > > > > Should wing away all music from the land,
> > > > > >   By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
> > > > > > And that cold passion of her choric sand
> > > > > >   Shall to my muse belong.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
> > > > > >   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> > > > > > These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
> > > > > >   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
> > > > > >   And where even now I hear
> > > > > > The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
> > > > > >   In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
> > > > > > And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
> > > > > >   A strange delight I feel.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
> > > > > >   The imp of April and the child of May,
> > > > > > The modest maid of June with her soft answer
> > > > > >   To every wooing wind that blew her way.
> > > > > >   And now, this autumn day,
> > > > > > When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
> > > > > >   And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
> > > > > > A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
> > > > > >   Plods by me in a dream.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > Let others pour their opulence of roses
> > > > > >   To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
> > > > > > Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
> > > > > >   In grateful love about my simple flower.
> > > > > >   While comrade singers shower
> > > > > > With wonderment of word and garish phrase
> > > > > >   The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
> > > > > > I rest content to twine mine austere bays
> > > > > >   About November’s brow.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
> > > > > >   Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
> > > > > > And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
> > > > > >   Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
> > > > > >   Here, where the black leaf cowers
> > > > > > Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
> > > > > >   Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
> > > > > > And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
> > > > > >   Of spring’s new chorus here.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
> > > > > >   Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
> > > > > > The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
> > > > > >   Until the gripping air is like a vice.
> > > > > >   The year hath tossed her dice
> > > > > > And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
> > > > > >   Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
> > > > > > And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
> > > > > >   A wounded pheasant dies.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
> > > > > >   The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
> > > > > > The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
> > > > > >   In all this frosty garden of the dead.
> > > > > >   The quail, to hardship bred,
> > > > > > Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
> > > > > >   And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
> > > > > > Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
> > > > > >   Leaps from her peaceful lair.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
> > > > > >   On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
> > > > > > Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
> > > > > >   And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
> > > > > >   And the last warmth benumbs.
> > > > > > I know the road she walks to greet her lord
> > > > > >   By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
> > > > > > Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
> > > > > >   Of dead leaves in distress?
> > > > > >
> > > > > > O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
> > > > > >   Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
> > > > > > So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
> > > > > >   When all the world is hungry for a song,
> > > > > >   And nights are strange and long,
> > > > > > That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
> > > > > >   To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
> > > > > > For God Himself hath set my song apart
> > > > > >   To praise His worlds unsung.
> > > > > > ----------
> > > > > >
> > > > > > Some critical views:
> > > > > >
> > > > > > “It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
> > > > > > https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald
> > > > > >
> > > > > > “more popular with the general public than with critics..”
> > > > > > https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald
> > > > > We wonder how many people have "Pugsley" as a middle name?
> > > > We wish that George Dance would cease copying the poems we find and the research we do on them. Evidently he then adds the poems and our research to his blaaarrrgghh (which we do not visit). We don't even open his posts. We are going to send the Mounties to his apartment to see how stout hearted a man he is when confronted with evidence.
> > > Another of the old poems that we found. MacDonald did not have a farm or a hamburger franchise.
> > MacDonald wants his poems off of George Dance's blaarrrggghh.
> Good luck with that.

We know that George Dance clings to things that are not his own. Of course he doesn't have much, so anything to him is a king's ransom: stolen poems, pissbum friends, discarded boxes.

On Monday, December 11, 2023 at 6:50:01 PM UTC-5, NancyGene wrote:
> On Monday, December 11, 2023 at 8:21:27 AM UTC-6, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> > On Sunday, December 10, 2023 at 3:35:31 PM UTC-5, NancyGene wrote:
> > > On Wednesday, December 6, 2023 at 1:36:51 PM UTC-8, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > On Sunday, November 19, 2023 at 12:00:41 AM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 10:32:49 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > > On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 7:30:34 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > > > In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
> > > > > > > ----------
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > November
> > > > > > > by Wilson MacDonald
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
> > > > > > >   For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
> > > > > > > That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
> > > > > > >   The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire..
> > > > > > >   And, lest that migrant choir
> > > > > > > Should wing away all music from the land,
> > > > > > >   By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
> > > > > > > And that cold passion of her choric sand
> > > > > > >   Shall to my muse belong.
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
> > > > > > >   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> > > > > > > These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
> > > > > > >   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
> > > > > > >   And where even now I hear
> > > > > > > The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
> > > > > > >   In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
> > > > > > > And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
> > > > > > >   A strange delight I feel.
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
> > > > > > >   The imp of April and the child of May,
> > > > > > > The modest maid of June with her soft answer
> > > > > > >   To every wooing wind that blew her way.
> > > > > > >   And now, this autumn day,
> > > > > > > When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
> > > > > > >   And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
> > > > > > > A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
> > > > > > >   Plods by me in a dream.
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > Let others pour their opulence of roses
> > > > > > >   To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
> > > > > > > Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
> > > > > > >   In grateful love about my simple flower.
> > > > > > >   While comrade singers shower
> > > > > > > With wonderment of word and garish phrase
> > > > > > >   The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
> > > > > > > I rest content to twine mine austere bays
> > > > > > >   About November’s brow.
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
> > > > > > >   Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
> > > > > > > And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
> > > > > > >   Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
> > > > > > >   Here, where the black leaf cowers
> > > > > > > Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
> > > > > > >   Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
> > > > > > > And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
> > > > > > >   Of spring’s new chorus here.
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
> > > > > > >   Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
> > > > > > > The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
> > > > > > >   Until the gripping air is like a vice.
> > > > > > >   The year hath tossed her dice
> > > > > > > And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
> > > > > > >   Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
> > > > > > > And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
> > > > > > >   A wounded pheasant dies.
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
> > > > > > >   The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
> > > > > > > The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
> > > > > > >   In all this frosty garden of the dead.
> > > > > > >   The quail, to hardship bred,
> > > > > > > Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
> > > > > > >   And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
> > > > > > > Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
> > > > > > >   Leaps from her peaceful lair.
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
> > > > > > >   On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
> > > > > > > Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
> > > > > > >   And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
> > > > > > >   And the last warmth benumbs.
> > > > > > > I know the road she walks to greet her lord
> > > > > > >   By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
> > > > > > > Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
> > > > > > >   Of dead leaves in distress?
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
> > > > > > >   Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
> > > > > > > So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
> > > > > > >   When all the world is hungry for a song,
> > > > > > >   And nights are strange and long,
> > > > > > > That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
> > > > > > >   To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
> > > > > > > For God Himself hath set my song apart
> > > > > > >   To praise His worlds unsung.
> > > > > > > ----------
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > Some critical views:
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > “It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
> > > > > > > https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald
> > > > > > >
> > > > > > > “more popular with the general public than with critics.”
> > > > > > > https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald
> > > > > > We wonder how many people have "Pugsley" as a middle name?
> > > > > We wish that George Dance would cease copying the poems we find and the research we do on them. Evidently he then adds the poems and our research to his blaaarrrgghh (which we do not visit). We don't even open his posts. We are going to send the Mounties to his apartment to see how stout hearted a man he is when confronted with evidence.
> > > > Another of the old poems that we found. MacDonald did not have a farm or a hamburger franchise.
> > > MacDonald wants his poems off of George Dance's blaarrrggghh.
> > Good luck with that.
> We know that George Dance clings to things that are not his own. Of course he doesn't have much, so anything to him is a king's ransom: stolen poems, pissbum friends, discarded boxes.
That's due to the unresolved issues of his economically and emotionally deprived childhood. He still the lonley little boy, wishing for a goodnight kiss, and getting his butt whipped with a leather belt instead.

On Thursday, December 14, 2023 at 11:44:32 PM UTC+10, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> On Monday, December 11, 2023 at 6:50:01 PM UTC-5, NancyGene wrote:
> > On Monday, December 11, 2023 at 8:21:27 AM UTC-6, Michael Pendragon wrote:
> > > On Sunday, December 10, 2023 at 3:35:31 PM UTC-5, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > On Wednesday, December 6, 2023 at 1:36:51 PM UTC-8, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > On Sunday, November 19, 2023 at 12:00:41 AM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > > On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 10:32:49 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > > > On Saturday, November 18, 2023 at 7:30:34 PM UTC+2, NancyGene wrote:
> > > > > > > > In “Out of the Wilderness” by Wilson MacDonald (1926), Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, p. 33.
> > > > > > > > ----------
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > November
> > > > > > > > by Wilson MacDonald
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > Some nomad yearning burns within my singing
> > > > > > > >   For that bleak beauty scorned of lute and lyre,
> > > > > > > > That loveliness of gray whereon are winging
> > > > > > > >   The last wild lyrists of the marsh and mire.
> > > > > > > >   And, lest that migrant choir
> > > > > > > > Should wing away all music from the land,
> > > > > > > >   By one forgotten lake I chant this song;
> > > > > > > > And that cold passion of her choric sand
> > > > > > > >   Shall to my muse belong.
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > This lake, unnamed in June, is still more nameless
> > > > > > > >   Amid this ruined grandeur of the year,
> > > > > > > > These roofless, pillared temples where the tameless
> > > > > > > >   Young Winter soon will chase her frosty spear;
> > > > > > > >   And where even now I hear
> > > > > > > > The prelude of her long and ghostly wail
> > > > > > > >   In boughs that creak and shallows that congeal.
> > > > > > > > And, like a child who hears some ghostly tale,
> > > > > > > >   A strange delight I feel.
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > I saw the year pass by me like a dancer:
> > > > > > > >   The imp of April and the child of May,
> > > > > > > > The modest maid of June with her soft answer
> > > > > > > >   To every wooing wind that blew her way.
> > > > > > > >   And now, this autumn day,
> > > > > > > > When the high rouge of leaf no more conceals
> > > > > > > >   And there is none to pipe a dancing theme,
> > > > > > > > A woman old, with heavy toes and heels,
> > > > > > > >   Plods by me in a dream.
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > Let others pour their opulence of roses
> > > > > > > >   To please their high-born ladies of the tower;
> > > > > > > > Rather would I the thin, wan hand that closes
> > > > > > > >   In grateful love about my simple flower.
> > > > > > > >   While comrade singers shower
> > > > > > > > With wonderment of word and garish phrase
> > > > > > > >   The luscious year, that moves from plough to plough,
> > > > > > > > I rest content to twine mine austere bays
> > > > > > > >   About November’s brow.
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > Here, in this cheerless womb, is born the glory
> > > > > > > >   Of June’s white-woven whorl of scented hours.
> > > > > > > > And here, within this mist supine and hoary,
> > > > > > > >   Is dreamed the foot of April’s dancing showers.
> > > > > > > >   Here, where the black leaf cowers
> > > > > > > > Against the dusky bosom of the earth,
> > > > > > > >   Is drawn the milk that feeds the dawning year;
> > > > > > > > And Flora plans, herself, the rhythmic birth
> > > > > > > >   Of spring’s new chorus here.
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > Above my nameless lake the broken fingers
> > > > > > > >   Of those once-hardy reeds are jewelled with ice;
> > > > > > > > The mallard duck, despite this warning, lingers
> > > > > > > >   Until the gripping air is like a vice.
> > > > > > > >   The year hath tossed her dice
> > > > > > > > And lost the Indian summer, and the loon
> > > > > > > >   Chills, with her wintry laughter, the bleak skies—
> > > > > > > > And, where a meagre sun is doled at noon,
> > > > > > > >   A wounded pheasant dies.
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > And, lest these hueless days should pass despairing,
> > > > > > > >   The rose hath garbed her seeds in orbs of red—
> > > > > > > > The last warm touch of pure, autumnal daring
> > > > > > > >   In all this frosty garden of the dead.
> > > > > > > >   The quail, to hardship bred,
> > > > > > > > Frames her soft eyes with tangled brush and brier,
> > > > > > > >   And woos us with the contrast; and the hare,
> > > > > > > > Urged by the weasel’s probing eyes of fire,
> > > > > > > >   Leaps from her peaceful lair.
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > This is the hour when the bold sun is sleeping
> > > > > > > >   On his last couch—and here his lady comes,
> > > > > > > > Cold as a cloud that will not melt to weeping,
> > > > > > > >   And breaks the flutes and muffles all the drums,
> > > > > > > >   And the last warmth benumbs.
> > > > > > > > I know the road she walks to greet her lord
> > > > > > > >   By the strange rustle of her silken dress;
> > > > > > > > Or do I hear the oak-tree’s phantom horde
> > > > > > > >   Of dead leaves in distress?
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > O troubadours of spring! O bards of gladness,
> > > > > > > >   Who in the scented gardens love to throng!
> > > > > > > > So loath are ye to sing the hour of sadness
> > > > > > > >   When all the world is hungry for a song,
> > > > > > > >   And nights are strange and long,
> > > > > > > > That I, in this pale hour, have called mine art
> > > > > > > >   To hymn that beauty, scorned of pen and tongue;
> > > > > > > > For God Himself hath set my song apart
> > > > > > > >   To praise His worlds unsung.
> > > > > > > > ----------
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > Some critical views:
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > “It is surprising the extent to which MacDonald was often taken seriously as an artist and equally surprising that genuine poems or hints of them can sometimes be discovered in his collections by those willing to wade through his vapid romanticism and pre-modernist conventions. Some satirical light verse may also stand re-examination.”
> > > > > > > > https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/wilson-pugsley-macdonald
> > > > > > > >
> > > > > > > > “more popular with the general public than with critics.”
> > > > > > > > https://www.ramblingnewenglandnature.com/oaks-by-wilson-p-macdonald
> > > > > > > We wonder how many people have "Pugsley" as a middle name?
> > > > > > We wish that George Dance would cease copying the poems we find and the research we do on them. Evidently he then adds the poems and our research to his blaaarrrgghh (which we do not visit). We don't even open his posts. We are going to send the Mounties to his apartment to see how stout hearted a man he is when confronted with evidence.
> > > > > Another of the old poems that we found. MacDonald did not have a farm or a hamburger franchise.
> > > > MacDonald wants his poems off of George Dance's blaarrrggghh.
> > > Good luck with that.
> > We know that George Dance clings to things that are not his own. Of course he doesn't have much, so anything to him is a king's ransom: stolen poems, pissbum friends, discarded boxes.
> That's due to the unresolved issues of his economically and emotionally deprived childhood. He still the lonley little boy, wishing for a goodnight kiss, and getting his butt whipped with a leather belt instead.