 | Along the trail |  |
THE SOUTH
Ah, where the hot wind with sweet odors ladenAcross the roses faintly beats his wings,
Lifting a lure of subtle murmurings
Over the still pools that the herons wade in,
Telling of some far sunset-bowered Aidenn,
And in an orange-tree an oriole sings,
Whereunder lies, dreaming of unknown things,
With orange-blossoms wreathed, a radiant maiden,—
There is the poet's land, there would I lie
Under magnolia blooms and take no care,
And let my eyes grow languid and my mouth
Glow with the kisses of the amorous air,
And breathe with every breath the luxury
Of the hot-cheeked, sweet, heavy-lidded South.
1883
| Along the trail | |