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James Whitcomb Riley - North And South
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Of the North I wove a dream,
  All bespangled with the gleam
    Of the glancing wings of swallows
  Dipping ripples in a stream,
  That, like a tide of wine,
  Wound through lands of shade and shine
  Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine.

  And where orchard-boughs were bent
  Till their tawny fruitage blent
    With the golden wake that marked the
  Way the happy reapers went;
  Where the dawn died into noon
  As the May-mists into June,
  And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon.

  Of the South I dreamed: And there
  Came a vision clear and fair
    As the marvelous enchantments
  Of the mirage of the air;
  And I saw the bayou-trees,
  With their lavish draperies,
  Hang heavy o`er the moon-washed cypress-knees.

  Peering from lush fens of rice,
  I beheld the Negro`s eyes,
    Lit with that old superstition
  Death itself can not disguise;
  And I saw the palm tree nod
  Like an oriental god,
  And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod,

  And I dreamed that North and South,
  With a sigh of dew and drouth,
    Blew each unto the other
  The salute of lip and mouth;
  And I wakened, awed and thrilled--
  Every doubting murmur stilled
  In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled.
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