Where through the long, long afternoon

No ray of summer's sultry shine

E'er kissed the rustic grape-vine swing:

High up the purpling muscadine

Clung close to where the waters poured,

And he saw the glint of the redbird's wing

In the crystal wave of the mossy spring,

As she stooped for the Old Drinking Gourd.

The odor tint of elder bloom

The zephyrs wafted through the spray

Was fresh as dew at dawn of day,

Caught in the geometric loom,

Arachne plies with subtle hand:

A pigeon bathed his snowy plume,

A fading speck the vulture soared;

And a tide swept in across the sand

As they stood on the brink of the golden strand

And drank from the Old Drinking Gourd.

A palace wrought of art sublime

Where antique paintings haunt the walls,

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