Jennie Moore

The morning air is richly rife With southern soft perfumes; Yon orchard glows with sudden blush Of mingled buds and blooms; The madrigals of wooing birds Awaken amorous Spring, And “Jennie Moore, sweet Jennie Moore” Is all the song they sing.

Glad Yalobusha’s rippling waves Repeat the darling name; The zephyr lost among the pines Dies murmuring the same; And when the hush of twilight steals Along the dreamy shore, The blissful silence to my heart Keeps singing “Jennie Moore.”