to my south

The silence has sustained too long,

Too long this silence,

And I haven’t heard a merry song

Of a post-winter resilience.

I was born a man long ago

When trees were still green

And jasmines were aglow

In the zephyr of spring.


These filled the ears of mine

In the sunny hills and darkling climes

Nightingales came to dine—

And dance to nocturnal rhymes—

In those sylvan foothills,

Where slow Summer’s

Approaching footstep fills

The awaken cuckoo’s numbers.


But the songs are gone

And the tantalizing aroma of wild flowers

In the tranquil bowers

Are now away blown.

O, my sweet South

Where larkspurs and honeysuckles

Dance like children

Of summer with muddy buckles.

O, my south, my Eden,

My young hungry mouth

Whose bountiful hands of gold

With care did feed.

But where have gone the old,

Old fields filled with strawberry

That with her darling little seed

Came to meet us in February?