In the South
I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-trees
That droop their silver heads by the dusty roads,
And are grave and cold and grey in spite of the sun . . .
In the veils of rose and blue that the bright dawn spun
Day wrapped me round in vain!
I longed for the lovers and friends I had left behind,
I longed for the North again.
I was deaf to song, and even to beauty blind,
Blind to the magic woof that summer weaves,
While roses beat their pearl and ruby leaves
Against my window pane . . .
And orange flowers so passionately white,
So richly perfumed, pined for my delight:
Only my faint heart sighed,
In pity when the glory waned and died,
For all that lovely life unsatisfied!
I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-trees
That droop their silver heads by the dusty roads . . .
Spring in the South
Beautiful as some rich embroidery
The valley lies in verdant amplitude,
Great mountains—like old merchants—o'er it brood—
And as a lovely woman languidly
Trailing her long blue robes, so comes the sea
To touch it softly in a wistful mood . . .
The sky forgets her starry multitude,
Seeing how fair mere earthly flowers can be!
Glad country where the wayward feet of Spring,
Moving in mystic dances, bring desire,
New miracles of beauty every day . . .
Where Love and sweet Delight fly wing to wing
Forgetful as in dreams, that bright as fire
So burn the hours of joy as swift away!