Swift the liquid golden flame Through my frame Sets my throbbing veins afire. Bright, alluring dreams arise, Brim mine eyes With the tears of strong desire. All familiar scenes anear Disappear-- Homestead, orchard, field, and wold. Moorish spires and turrets fair Cleave the air, Arabesqued on skies of gold. Low, my spirit, this May morn, Outward borne, Over seas hath taken wing: Where the mediaeval town, Like a crown, Wears the garland of the Spring. Light and sound and odors sweet Fill the street; Gypsy girls are selling flowers. Lean hidalgos turn aside, Amorous-eyed, 'Neath the grim cathedral towers. Oh, to be in Spain to-day, Where the May Recks no whit of good or evil, Love and only love breathes she! Oh, to be 'Midst the olive-rows of Seville! Or on such a day to glide With the tide Of the berylline lagoon, Through the streets that mirror heaven, Crystal paven, In the warm Venetian noon. At the prow the gondolier May not hear, May not see our furtive kiss; But he lends with cadenced strain The refrain To our ripe and silent bliss. Golden shadows, silver light, Burnish bright Air and water, domes and skies; As in some ambrosial dream, On the stream Floats our bark in magic wise. Oh, to float day long just so! Naught to know Of the trouble, toil, and fret! This is love, and this is May: Yesterday And to-morrow to forget! Whither hast thou, Fancy free, Guided me, Wild Bohemian sister dear? All thy gypsy soul is stirred Since yon bird Warbled that the Spring was here. Tempt no more! I may not follow, Like the swallow, Gayly on the track of Spring. Bounden by an iron fate, I must wait, Dream and wonder, yearn and sing. THE SOUTH. Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skies Behold the Spirit of the musky South, A creole with still-burning, languid eyes, Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth: Swathed in spun gauze is she, From fibres of her own anana tree. Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease, By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed: 'Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees, Like to the golden oriole's hanging nest, Her airy hammock swings, And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings. How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreath Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair: Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death, Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air, While movelessly she lies With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.