 | Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne |  |
XXXIII.
IN THE PORCH.
In this old porch, fast mouldering to decay,But wreathed in vines and girt by shadowy trees,
All day I hear the dreamful hum of bees,
Soft-rustling foliage, and the fragrant sway
Of breezes borne from some far ocean bay;
And oft with half-closed eyelids, stretched at ease—
The pines above me voiced like distant seas—
I seem to mark a coy young Dryad stray
Out from the tangled greenery overhead,
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Deep with Arcadian mysteries softly shed;
And near her, wafted from the ambrosial South,
A white-limbed Nereid, round whose balmy mouth
Breathe the wave's freshness and the wind's desire.
| Poems of Paul Hamilton Hayne | |