In the South

I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-trees That droop their silver heads by the dusty roads, And are grave and cold and grey in spite of the sun . . . In the veils of rose and blue that the bright dawn spun Day wrapped me round in vain! I longed for the lovers and friends I had left behind, I longed for the North again. I was deaf to song, and even to beauty blind, Blind to the magic woof that summer weaves, While roses beat their pearl and ruby leaves Against my window pane . . . And orange flowers so passionately white, So richly perfumed, pined for my delight: Only my faint heart sighed, In pity when the glory waned and died, For all that lovely life unsatisfied! I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-trees That droop their silver heads by the dusty roads . . .