The Inn of Dreams/In the South

by Olive Custance

For other versions of this work, see In the South (Custance).

In the South

 

I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-treesThat 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 spunDay 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 leavesAgainst 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-treesThat droop their silver heads by the dusty roads . . .