Rushed over my soul like a warm, sweet wind
That blows from the fragrant South.
And where, after all, is the harm done?
I believe we were made to be gay,
And all of youth not given to love
Is vainly squandered away,
And strewn through life-long labors,
Like gold in the desert sands,
Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows,
And the clasp of clinging hands.