Today? Perfection (yesterday, too). James Russell Lowell wrote "What is so rare as a day in June?/Then if ever come perfect days." Well, he did live in New England, where one sickens of winter, but I'm not entirely distant from that locus, so a fine June day near Boston can be a fine June day hereabouts, too.
I don't call Lowell exactly a poetaster, but he is certainly a dim light in the poetic firmament now, despite this good Q/A that has long stuck in my mind (usually surfacing on a fine June day). Not taking time looking up the quotation, who can name the poem it comes from? It's the first two lines, too. And I had to look it up again, anyway. Then he goes on about trees and flowers and birdies. I stopped.