THE SONG OF THE WITLING
She pouts, but yesterday she smiled,
And since that moment I have whiled
Away the hours with hope and doubt
And see the lips that smile and pout.
So high at times she holds her head,
I feel a certain awe or dread,
But when she smiles, I know not why,
Her head seems never held so high.
Her brow and eyes will often frown
Until she sees how I’m cast down,
And then she’ll turn and sympathize
With placid brow and smiling eyes.
’Gainst pose of head and frown I cope,
For in her smile I find a hope,
And every hour I think about
And see the lips that smile and pout.
From a land so replete with a chivalric story
That even its name is a symbol of glory,
Came a bachelor unloved, but as gentle and kind
As though he were still a fond lover. His mind
Often turned to the valley from which he had come,
For throughout the wide world there was still but one home
For which his heart yearned; but he could not return;
It was but a mem’ry, the real home was gone,
And all of the warmth of a bright Southern sun
Could never revive what the war had undone.