In the South Countree

A lady came from Northern Lands
To the blue-hill counties of the South;
Magnolia-white were her flitting hands,
Geranium-red her sweet, small mouth.

She lingered but a bud-brief while
In the quiet of the South Countree;
A kiss, a look, a starry smile
Were three things left for memory.

Now every swaying poplar makes
A murmur like a silken dress,
And in the hills a white moon wakes
The little winds of loneliness.