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By JENNIFER DOHERTY
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In this poem by Jane Greer, the glory of a late-summer day on the great plains proclaims its own transience.
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It might seem precipitous to think already of the end of summer, when in so many places August is blazing away, the heat laughing at our hope that it will break. But the contemporary formalist poet Jane Greer — author of “Love Like a Conflagration” and the forthcoming “The World as We Know It Is Falling Away,” from which today’s Poem of the Day is taken — makes her home in North Dakota. The closer you live to the Arctic Circle, the more fleeting your summer days become. When Robert Frost wrote “Nothing gold can stay,” he was thinking of the first barely green spring leaves. Here, in a twelve-line pentameter poem with an abcabc rhyme scheme, the glory of a late-summer day on the great plains proclaims its own transience.
By JENNIFER DOHERTY
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By SHARON KEHNEMUI
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By MATTHEW RICE
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By GEORGE WILL
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By DONALD KIRK
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By ROSS ANDERSON
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By JULIE BURCHILL
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By MATTHEW RICE
|It might seem precipitous to think already of the end of summer, when in so many places August is blazing away, the heat laughing at our hope that it will break. But the contemporary formalist poet Jane Greer — author of “Love Like a Conflagration” and the forthcoming “The World as We Know It Is Falling Away,” from which today’s Poem of the Day is taken — makes her home in North Dakota. The closer you live to the Arctic Circle, the more fleeting your summer days become. When Robert Frost wrote “Nothing gold can stay,” he was thinking of the first barely green spring leaves. Here, in a twelve-line pentameter poem with an abcabc rhyme scheme, the glory of a late-summer day on the great plains proclaims its own transience.
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