Gene Stratton-Porter wrote the poem "The Lights of Lincoln Park." It was the last poem in Mary DeJong Obuchowski's book Field O'My Dreams: the Poetry of Gene Stratton Porter. The poem was not published in Gene's lifetime.
In August 2019, Terri Gorney uncovered that the verse was written and read by Gene on May 17 1921 at the celebration of the turning on of electric lights at Lincoln Park in Los Angeles.
Adrienne Provenzano did some research and discovered that Lincoln Park was first known as Eastlake. She found the photographs included after Gene's poem.
We hope that knowing the background story of the poem will give one greater appreciation and enjoyment in reading the poem.
The Lights of Lincoln Park
Los Angeles is saucy jade,
Shaking down her golden hair,
To veil the splendour of her face,
High set on mountains fair.
Her lips are sweet pomegranate bloom,
Her fingers beckoning canyons meet,
Her knees in radiant gardens bend,
The sea frolics at her feet.
Her great heart beats with pulsing throes,
Her million small hearts feel,
The brocades of her ruffled skirts,
All tropic wealth reveal.
She wears upon her eagre breast,
An emerald of wondrous green,
Quaint carved with oak and pepper tree,
With swamp and lillied lake serene.
A jewel raying diamond lights,
Like fallen stars smiting the dark.
Lean low and tell me, Father Abraham,
Don't you truly love your park?
In August 2019, Terri Gorney uncovered that the verse was written and read by Gene on May 17 1921 at the celebration of the turning on of electric lights at Lincoln Park in Los Angeles.
Adrienne Provenzano did some research and discovered that Lincoln Park was first known as Eastlake. She found the photographs included after Gene's poem.
We hope that knowing the background story of the poem will give one greater appreciation and enjoyment in reading the poem.
The Lights of Lincoln Park
Los Angeles is saucy jade,
Shaking down her golden hair,
To veil the splendour of her face,
High set on mountains fair.
Her lips are sweet pomegranate bloom,
Her fingers beckoning canyons meet,
Her knees in radiant gardens bend,
The sea frolics at her feet.
Her great heart beats with pulsing throes,
Her million small hearts feel,
The brocades of her ruffled skirts,
All tropic wealth reveal.
She wears upon her eagre breast,
An emerald of wondrous green,
Quaint carved with oak and pepper tree,
With swamp and lillied lake serene.
A jewel raying diamond lights,
Like fallen stars smiting the dark.
Lean low and tell me, Father Abraham,
Don't you truly love your park?
This picture of Eastlake is from the California Historical Society's collection.
Photograph from the Los Angeles Library photograph collection.
Photograph from the California Historical Society's collection.
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