In The South.

There is a princess in the South
    About whose beauty rumors hum
Like honey-bees about the mouth
    Of roses dewdrops falter from;
    And O her hair is like the fine
    Clear amber of a jostled wine
    In tropic revels; and her eyes
    Are blue as rifts of Paradise.

Such beauty as may none before
    Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips
Of fingers such as knights of yore
    Had died to lift against their lips:
    Such eyes as might the eyes of gold
    Of all the stars of night behold
    With glittering envy, and so glare
    In dazzling splendor of despair.

So, were I but a minstrel, deft
    At weaving, with the trembling strings
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft
    Of rondels such as rapture sings, -
    I'd loop my lyre across my breast,
    Nor stay me till my knee found rest
    In midnight banks of bud and flower
    Beneath my lady's lattice-bower.

And there, drenched with the teary dews,
    I'd woo her with such wondrous art
As well might stanch the songs that ooze
    Out of the mockbird's breaking heart;
    So light, so tender, and so sweet
    Should be the words I would repeat,
    Her casement, on my gradual sight,
    Would blossom as a lily might.