Pictures Of The Southland

I am sitting by a window that is open to the South,

            And a magic perfumed sweetness is pervading all the

                                    air,

And it comes to me as softly as red kisses on the mouth,

            And the breeze is like slim fingers softly moving

                                    through my hair;

Oh, crepe-myrtle leaves are scarlet; I can see them flame

                                    afar,

And the golden cosmos mornings is a-drip with silver

                                    dew;

Oh, I long to come and seek you, come and find you

                                    where you are,

Just to bring the lovely pictures of the Southland to

                                    your view.

You and I have watched the city from the highlands to

                                    the west,

Just a silhouette serrated ‘gainst the far moon-lighted

                                    skies,

When the birds and trees and bushes all seemed lulled

                                    to noiseless rest,

And I’ve turned and caught the glory of the moment

                                    in your eyes;

And we’ve turned and walked on, slowly turning now

                                    and then to see

That which held us rapt and speechless—that whose

                                    every phase was new—

Silhouetted distant city, silhouetted nearby tree;

            Oh, I’d love to show the pictures of the Southland,

                                    dear, to you.

Sitting here beside the windows with the breezes in my

                                    hair,

And the perfume of the Southland like a red-lipped,

                                    teasing kiss,

For a moment you seem perching here beside me on

                                    my chair,

And the miles between us, fading, leave us sitting

                                    steeped in bliss.

Far away wide liveoaks beckon, standing up against the

                                    sky;

And magnolias are calling, every bloom a-drip with

                                    dew,

And the jasmine perfume coaxes where the hazy bayous

                                    lie;

Oh, I’d love to show the pictures of the Southland,

                                    dear, to you.

                                     Lilts O Love Table Of Contents