Nor asks what passions stirred the dust
Through which her pulses spring to bloom.
While from the gardens of the South,
Like blessings blown from some warm mouth,
The wooing wind steals all day long—
Steals lingeringly from grave to grave,
With breath of blossom, breath of song.
A common flag, breeze, showers and flowers,
Are weaving all these sunny hours,
Where broken hearts and hopes are hid,