Iii

There the verandah, spilled and spun With deep bignonia, foaming all its frame With fiery blooms, seems pouring for the sun A cataract of flame.

The oleander hedges soak The dusk with fragrance: and the gray moss sweeps Its streamers from the cypress and live-oak Where blue the ocean sleeps.

“Oh, love, love, love!” the wood-dove coos; “Oh, love, love, love, for ever! They who the crimson rose refuse, All other flowers, too, may lose-- So choose thou now or never! Oh, love, love, love!”