| |
| FRINGING cypress forests dim | |
| Where the owl makes weird abode, | |
| Bending down with spicy limb | |
| O’er the old plantation road | |
| Through the swamp and up the hill, | 5 |
| Where the dappled byways run, | |
| Round the gin-house, by the mill, | |
| Floats its incense to the sun. | |
| |
| Swift to catch the voice of spring, | |
| Soon its tasselled blooms appear; | 10 |
| Modest in their blossoming, | |
| Breathing balm and waving cheer; | |
| Rare the greeting that they send | |
| To the fragrant wildwood blooms, | |
| Bidding every blossom blend | 15 |
| In a chorus of perfumes. | |
| |
| On it leans the blackberry vine, | |
| With white sprays caressingly; | |
| Round its knees the wild peas twine, | |
| Beckoning to the yellow bee; | 20 |
| Through its boughs the red-bird flits | |
| Like a living flake of fire, | |
| And with love-enlightened wits | |
| Weaves his nest and tunes his lyre. | |
| |
| Oh, where skies are summer-kissed, | 25 |
| And the drowsy days are long, | |
| ’Neath the sassafras to list | |
| To the field-hand’s mellow song! | |
| Or, more sweet than chimes that hang | |
| In some old cathedral dome, | 30 |
| Catch the distant klingle-klang | |
| Of the cow-bells tinkling home! | |
| |
