The Arrow and the Song, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882).

«I adore simple pleasures; they're the last refuge of the complex,» murmured Lord Henry in Oscar Wilde's _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. That sums this entry up quite nicely. Apart from Allen Ginsberg and my late friend John Calvin Rezmerski, I haven't read many American poets. Anglophilia is a debilitating chronic disease, don't you know. But this little gem is very fine in so many ways and deserves to be remembered, too. The internal rhymes are a delight, as are the repeated words. It's only this summer of 2021 I stumbled upon its elegant simplicity, quite by chance. Like Shakespeare's eighteenth sonnet, it reminds us of the terrifying power of words.