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James Whitcomb Riley - In The South
Work rating: Low

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.
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