The clouds of gray engulf the day,
And overwhelm the town,
It isn’t raining rain to me,
It’s raining roses down.,’”
while the rain across the hills, shot through with sunset light, fell all violets and clover-bloom and roses on the mountains and on the roof of Woodchuck Lodge.
The thing on the box between us was utterly forgotten, but only for the moment.
“Damn those fleas!” the old poet exploded, at the end of the recitation, swinging with both hands at his long white whiskers, “That ’chuck’s alive with fleas!”
So I had observed; and I had been speculating, as I watched them quitting their sinking craft and boarding the sweeping beard of the poet, how many of them it might take to halt the flow of song. I was far off in my reckoning. Burroughs knocked them out and went on:
“That’s a good poem because it goes straight to the heart. It’s an experience. He lived it. And its form is perfect. You can’t change a syllable in it. It’s on the old forms, yet it’s true to itself. And see how simple, direct, and sincere it is! and how lovely! I call that good poetry.”