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.