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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=386719" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The South</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skies<br>Behold the Spirit of the musky South,<br>A creole with still-burning, languid eyes,<br>Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth:<br>Swathed in spun gauze is she,<br>From fibres of her own anana tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease,<br>By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed:<br>'Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees,<br>Like to the golden oriole's hanging nest,<br>Her airy hammock swings,<br>And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreath<br>Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair:<br>Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death,<br>Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air,<br>While movelessly she lies<br>With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Full well knows she how wide and fair extend<br>Her groves bright-flowered, her tangled everglades,<br>Majestic streams that indolently wend<br>Through lush savanna or dense forest shades,<br>Where the brown buzzard flies<br>To broad bayou 'neath hazy-golden skies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp,<br>With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom,<br>Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp,<br>Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom-<br>Where from stale waters dead<br>Oft looms the great-jawed alligator's head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,-<br>Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods,<br>Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees;<br>And ever midst those verdant solitudes<br>The soldier's wooden cross,<br>O'ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Was her a dream of empire? was it sin?<br>And is it well that all was borne in vain?<br>She knows no more than one who slow doth win,<br>After fierce fever, conscious life again,<br>Too tired, too weak, too sad,<br>By the new light to be stirred or glad.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From rich sea-islands fringing her green shore,<br>From broad plantations where swart freemen bend<br>Bronzed backs in willing labor, from her store<br>Of golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascend<br>Life-currents of pure health:<br>Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet now how listless and how still she lies,<br>Like some half-savage, dusky Indian queen,<br>Rocked in her hammock 'neath her native skies,<br>With the pathetic, passive, broken mien<br>Of one who, sorely proved,<br>Great-souled, hath suffered much and much hath loved!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But look! along the wide-branched, dewy glade<br>Glimmers the dawn: the light palmetto-trees<br>And cypresses reissue from the shade,<br>And SHE hath wakened. Through clear air she sees<br>The pledge, the brightening ray,<br>And leaps from dreams to hail the coming day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Emma+Lazarus">Emma Lazarus</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=386719" data-title="The South de Emma Lazarus" data-description="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 t..."></div>
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