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...
Her dimpled cheeks are pale;
She ’s a lily of the vale,
Not a rose.
In a muslin or a lawn
She is fairer than the dawn
To her beaux.
Her boots are slim and neat,—
She is vain about her feet,
It is said.
She amputates her r’s,
But her eyes are like the stars
Overhead.
On a...
The dew is on the heather,
The moon is in the sky,
And the captain’s waving feather
Proclaims the hour is nigh
When some upon their horses
Shall through the battle ride,
And some with bleeding corses
Must on the heather bide.
The dust is on the heather,
The moon is in the sky,
And about the captain’s...
My little girl is nested
Within her tiny bed,
With amber ringlets crested
Around her dainty head;
She lies so calm and stilly,
She breathes so soft and low,
She calls to mind a lily
Half-hidden in the snow.
A weary little mortal
Has gone to slumberland;
The Pixies at the portal
Have caught her...
My little girl is nested
Within her tiny bed,
With amber ringlets crested
Around her dainty head;
She lies so calm and stilly,
She breathes so soft and low,
She calls to mind a lily
Half-hidden in the snow.
A weary little mortal
Has gone to slumberland;
The Pixies at the portal
Have caught her...
For the Boys of Yale
SHE hath no gems of lustre bright
To sparkle in her hair;
No need hath she of borrowed light
To make her beauty fair.
Upon her shining locks afloat
Are daisies wet with dew,
And peeping from her lissome throat
A little knot of blue.
A dainty knot of blue,
A ribbon blithe of hue....
She sports a witching gown,
With a ruffle up and down
On the skirt;
She is gentle, she is shy,
But there ’s mischief in her eye,—
She ’s a flirt!
She displays a tiny glove,
And a dainty little love
Of a shoe;
And she wears her hat a-tilt
Over bangs that never wilt
...
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...
