Oft have I sighed for thee in spicy clime,
Where hung the clustering grape from every bough,
And where the nectar of the gods was free
As Croton-water in old Gotham’s Park.
Untainted with the liquid sin that flows
From the destroyer’s still, thy spirit lifts
The thirsty soul from earth—but not too high,
Nor leaves at morn a flush upon the brow.
An apple caused the first of earth to sin;
But thou, well made, and freed from earthly taint,