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Golden Hour

 

When the perfumed air is shifting,

In the gentle morning breeze,

And the golden sunlight sifting

Through the boughs of swaying trees;

 

High above the sky is crystal,

With the palest hint of blue

Daubed with the colors grey and bridal,

Edged by flaming curlicue.

 

Sweet, the many-throated choir

Sings hidden, behind the leaves.

Sunrise fuels them like a fire

So unstoppable their praise.

 

He, who failing to so heed them,

Closes fast his mortal eyes,

Is deafened to earth’s loudest theme,

Whose clearness is like the skies:

 

His fingerprints on every blade,

Trees, birds, the sun, tell that sole thing—

Creation proving what He said—

His sovereignty must sing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright May 25, 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Guest Wesley Southern
1 hour ago, Leah_Donavan said:

Sweet, the many-throated choir

Sings hidden, behind the leaves.

Sunrise fuels them like a fire

So unstoppable their praise.

 

Hey, this poem is pretty good. I just thought the rhyme scheme fell apart in this last line.

 

Otherwise the metering is pretty good. I’m checking your iambs, making sure they’re unstressed/stressed

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Just now, Wesley Southern said:

 

Hey, this poem is pretty good. I just thought the rhyme scheme fell apart in this last line.

 

Otherwise the metering is pretty good. I’m checking your iambs, making sure they’re unstressed/stressed

yay, thank you! As in "leaves" and "praise" don't fit the scheme. eh? thanks for pointing that out!

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