Sassafras

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, 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; Modest is their blossoming, Breathing balm and waving cheer; Rare the greeting that they send To the fragrant wildwood blooms, Bidding every blossom blend 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; 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, 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, Catch the distant klingle-klang Of the cow-bells tinkling home!