Flower Basket Poetic Verse Flower Basket
Verse - metrical text in poetic composition.
Unit of verse is based on meter or rhyme grouped in stanzas.
Unit of prose is purely grammatical grouped in sentences or paragraphs.
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Please Compare the Poems of Famous Poets to the Authors Poetry


          
  * WINTER’S DAY AT THE SUMMERHOUSE * 


Once in the spring, as sunbeams danced and flowers pranced, across the meadow green
The countryside came alive, a savanna serene, like velveteen.
From the belvedere of the summerhouse, you could see as far as the eye could reach
And nary a man, could pray or preach, to define such beauty in thought or speech.

It had been awhile, since the summer smile, and autumn had gone by the wayside.
Winter arrived, now to reside, and dried the green of the hillside. 
Day was departing…prematurely dissolving, delivering a dark and dismal chill.
When in the spring, where flowers had bloomed, not even a dancing daffodil.

December dusk descended early, the winter wind was damp and surly
And yet the wind, undisciplined, continued swift and swirly. 
I ran up the hill, to flee the chill, to a house both warm and cheery.
But now it appeared, where the woods were clear, lay a land austere, worn and weary.  

Night was calling, snow was falling, drifting down through the valley.
I hurried my flight, from the bitter bite, not the time to dilly-dally.
While I shivered and shook, I struggled to unhook, the latch on the cabin door.
Stepping inside, chilled to the core, I hung on a hook, the coat that I wore.

The fire was low, still embers glow, awaiting a log from the inglenook. 
Starving and tired, through cabinets I looked, seeking to find, a dinner to cook.
With a meal I was full and feeling content, dropped down in my easy chair.
Here in my lair, devil-the-care, I was out of the cold and snug as a bear.

Beyond the books on the table near, the logs burned bright in the fireplace.
A silhouette shimmered as it came alive from flames that danced with rhythm and grace.
From the table I took, my favorite book, flipping through pages of folklore.
Forgetting the chore and bore of the day, I sought to soar in the joy of the lore.

As evening wore, I began to yawn, tired from the day, spent and gone.
Eager to find, from the pages of time, the perfect rhyme of memories forgone.
From book to book, rapidly I looked, through many a chapter of gobbledygook.
Starting to think, my eyes did blink, mind not link, to many a character in the storybook.

From the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow, to the great Greek god Apollo,
Sir Galahad, that gallant lad, to the Three Musketeers and adventures to follow.
From the rising dust of a fighting brigade, you could hear the cry of the dying.
As Gunga Din came crawling, “ plug him where he bled”, he said, with many a bullet flying,

The Queens' handmaid, the pretty milkmaid and all the Kings men, his fiddlers three
Oh Annabel Lee, I dream of thee…in your kingdom by the sea.
As I remember that bleak December, sitting in my chair, nearly napping,
I heard some tapping, was someone yapping…or could it be a visitor rapping?

Could it be my Lenore, and nothing more…or merely that raven tapping.
The next thing I knew I woke from my snore, to find that I had only been napping.
Although it seemed real, what a pleasure to feel, the joy from the lore I had been seeking
That day I remember, in cold December, the warmth from the fire and the embers creaking.



 

 
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