T. H. T.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
WHAT I LOVE.
| I love to stray at early morn, 'Mid flowers along the verdant dale, Inhale the fragrance of the thorn, And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail. I love within some forest deep, At sultry noon reclined to lie, And watch the fleecy clouds that creep, With quiet pace along the sky. I love at quiet eve to go, Far from the noisy crowd, and dream Of all the glorious hopes which throw Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream. But more than all, at silent night, I love with one fair form to rove, Beneath the pale moon's pensive light, And whisper burning words of love. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.