SOUTH SONG by ROY ADDISON HELTON

I'm for the South, -- for the black-eyed South
With Art in its fingers and Love on its mouth,
With scent in the stars of its eyes, and its tune
From Beauty's warm lips on the bride-bed of June.

Oh, the North Folk are grim folk
From Shetland east to Maine:
Brooding lonely grim folk,
Plagued with the lust for pain;
So I'm for the clear-souled South Folk
Of Richmond and Rome and Spain.

Woe is the lot of the north lands,
North of fifty three, --
Of the sin-eating, blood-sweating north lands
That kneel with a knotted knee:
Gorky's dazed folk of the north lands;
Fiona's wierd folk of the north lands;
Tolstoi's troubled folk of the north lands;
And Ibsen's dour folk by the sea.

Brooding and bale in the north nights;
Hard strife for the day's short span;
And a grim gray fate for the souls that mate
Where toil is the measure of man:
Where the great blond gray-eyed North Folk,
The Berserker moralist north folk,
Gloom and fume in the starlight,
Hate and mate in the moonlight,
Dream and scheme by the lamp light --
Till the earth runs red with their wars.

So I'm for the South, -- for the black-eyed South
With Art in its fingers and Love on its mouth,
With scent in the stars of its eyes, and its tune
From Beauty's warm lips on the bride-bed of June.

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