William H. Timrod (1792–1838)

SLEEPS the soft South, nursing its delicate breath

To fan the first buds of the early spring;

And Summer, sighing, mourns his faded wreath,

Its many-colored glories withering

Beneath the kisses of the new-waked North,—

Who yet in storms approaches not, but smiles

On the departing season, and breathes forth

A fragrance as of summer,—till at whiles

All that is sweetest in the varying year

Seems softly blent in one delicious hour;

Waking dim visions of some former sphere

Where sorrows, such as earth owns, had no power

To veil the changeless lustre of the skies,

And mind and matter formed one Paradise.