M.I.
Born in the North, and reared in Tropic lands—
Her mind has all the vigor of a tree,
Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea,
And all the sweetness of a rose that stands
In the soft sunshine on some sheltered lea.
She seems all life and light and love to me!
No winter lingers in her glowing smile,
No coldness in her deep melodious words,—
But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle,
And all the music of its tuneful birds.
With her conversing of my native bowers
In the far South, I feel the genial air
Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers,
Which, like herself, are bright above compare.
Her mind has all the vigor of a tree,
Sprung from a rocky soil beside the sea,
And all the sweetness of a rose that stands
In the soft sunshine on some sheltered lea.
She seems all life and light and love to me!
No winter lingers in her glowing smile,
No coldness in her deep melodious words,—
But all the warmth of her dear Indian isle,
And all the music of its tuneful birds.
With her conversing of my native bowers
In the far South, I feel the genial air
Of some delicious morn, and taste those flowers,
Which, like herself, are bright above compare.
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