James Whitcomb Riley Poems >>
North And South

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.