Antebellum
I knew the hush of white verandas,
Where time lay soft as fading lace,
And magnolias bent like women dreaming
In their slow, untroubled grace.
The river held its silver rumor,
The fields wore gold without a sound,
And all the clocks of earth were gentle,
With no sorrow found.
Yet somewhere beyond the singing distance
A darker wind began to start—
A whisper moving through the cedars,
A fracture running through the heart.
I did not see the hands that labored,
Nor hear the breaking of the day;
Only the light, too calm, too perfect,
As truth was kept away.
Now memory is a haunted parlor,
Where portraits stare with patient eyes—
And every rose that once was gardened
Still learns too late what silence hides.
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