Laughing to ’scape the red arms of the hills,
Yet bringing on thy cheek the telltale blush,
For chattering tongues of all the old dame mills.
The live-oak bends to kiss thee, and his sigh
Is mingled with the passing of thy charms;
The willows start from hidden coverts by
To clasp thee in their looping, lover arms.
Is that deep shadow dark’ning now thine eye
Repentant sorrow for the willow’s plight,
As though the stern gloom of the cypress nigh