Mary Ashley (van Voorhis) Townsend (1832–1832)

THE WIND, that poet of the elements,

To-night comes whistling down our tropic lanes,

And wakes the slumbrous hours with sweet refrains:

From creamy cups, filled with magnolia scents,

His luscious lips have gained rich recompense

For scaling her green towers. To him complains—

While shy acacias shake their tawny manes—

The lonesome lily of her discontents.

The jasmine, with her white soul in her face,

Bestows her holy kisses on his mouth;

Before the pilgrim-minstrel violets place

The purple censers of their fervent youth,

And nodding poppies, with a drowsy grace,

Anoint his feet with dream-oils of the South.