Night in the South
Here in the deep, June dark,
Laden with odors of the rose excessive,
Where not a star ray strikes oaks to mark
The glooms impressive,
I tilt my rustic chair-
The smoke from my Havana upward wreathing,
And o'er the rolling of the world I hear
The great night breathing!
The night has no art
To hide her grief; with dim-draped arms ex-
tended,
She waits to welcome to her widowed heart
The moon splendid.
And yet- so still is all
That if a bird's nest slipped its airy tether
There would be sound and feeling in the fall
Of one light feather!
The rills that brawled all day,
Now with the tumbled pebbles make no wrangle;
The wind seems weary and has lost its way
In vines a-tangle.
In vines where odorous swings
The honeysuckle , o'er the senses stealing;
Where hummingbirds have brushed with beau-
tous wings
The wild grapes reeling!
Night! and the South! and June!
Silence - and yet, the sound of many voices!
And now, dashed down the darkness, tune on tune,
And melody rejoices!
Clear through the awakened night
The music rushes - all the joy -bells ringing;
And every leaf is trembling with delight
born of that singing!
It is as if a word
Had flashed from God- aweary of the quiet;
The soul of music in a mocking-bird
In maddest riot!
Night! and the South! and June!
The wind awakes;
the river sings its story;
Up from the black hills climbs the brimming moon
In full-blown glory!
The distant hills grow bright:
The oaks stand clear; the loneliest nook un-
covers;
The keen vines listen for the footsteps light
Of whispering lovers!
A flash on fields and streams,
And one bird's song tumultuous and tender;
And then - the languor of melodious dreams,
And earth all splendor ------------------ Frank L. Stanton
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