Soul of the Land.
Aug. 2nd, 2010 05:43 amIf I should leave this land and not return,
The colors of its tropic dawns would burn
Behind my eyelids like an opal's flames,
And I would hear the music of the names
That Indians gave to rivers, lakes, and streams
Like tom-toms pulsing. Sometimes in my dreams
I'd seek a certain secret jungle place
Where orchids, tangled in the jungle lace,
Are like bright swirls of vivid butterflies.
I'd hear the tropic night alive with cries
Of birds and prowling creatures of the dark.
I'd see jeweled lizards racing on the bark
Of ancient trees gray-veiled with Spanish moss.
I'd see the sun reflecting the golden gloss
Of citrus groves and sense the rich perfume
That scents the silver of the moons that loom
Above this savage land. A thousand scenes
Would crowd my memory-book...the living greens
Of forest and the changing blues of seas.
A tapestry of treasured memories.
One picture, more than all, would seem to hold
This land's great soul enframed in tawny gold,
A picture that will ever haunt my eyes...
Wrought-iron trees against stained-glass skies.
--Don Blanding, Floridays
The colors of its tropic dawns would burn
Behind my eyelids like an opal's flames,
And I would hear the music of the names
That Indians gave to rivers, lakes, and streams
Like tom-toms pulsing. Sometimes in my dreams
I'd seek a certain secret jungle place
Where orchids, tangled in the jungle lace,
Are like bright swirls of vivid butterflies.
I'd hear the tropic night alive with cries
Of birds and prowling creatures of the dark.
I'd see jeweled lizards racing on the bark
Of ancient trees gray-veiled with Spanish moss.
I'd see the sun reflecting the golden gloss
Of citrus groves and sense the rich perfume
That scents the silver of the moons that loom
Above this savage land. A thousand scenes
Would crowd my memory-book...the living greens
Of forest and the changing blues of seas.
A tapestry of treasured memories.
One picture, more than all, would seem to hold
This land's great soul enframed in tawny gold,
A picture that will ever haunt my eyes...
Wrought-iron trees against stained-glass skies.
--Don Blanding, Floridays