The South

The South

Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skies
Behold the Spirit of the musky South,
A creole with still-burning, languid eyes,
Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth:
Swathed in spun gauze is she,
From fibres of her own anana tree.

Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease,
By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed:
’Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees,
Like to the golden oriole’s hanging nest,
Her airy hammock swings,
And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.

How beautiful she is! A tulip-wreath
Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair:
Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death,
Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air,
While noiselessly she lies
With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.

Full well knows she how wide and fair extend
Her groves bright flowered, her tangled everglades,
Majestic streams that indolently wend
Through lush savanna or dense forest shades,
Where the brown buzzard flies
To broad bayous ’neath hazy-golden skies.

Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp,
With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom,
Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp,
Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom—
Where from stale waters dead
Oft looms the great jawed alligator’s head.

Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,—
Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods,
Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees;
And ever midst those verdant solitudes
The soldier’s wooden cross,
O’ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.

Was hers a dream of empire? was it sin?
And is it well that all was borne in vain?
She knows no more than one who slow doth win,
After fierce fever, conscious life again,
Too tired, too weak, too sad,
By the new light to be or stirred or glad.

From rich sea-islands fringing her green shore,
From broad plantations where swart freemen bend
Bronzed backs in willing labor, from her store
Of golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascend
Life-currents of pure health:
Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.

Yet now how listless and how still she lies,
Like some half-savage, dusky Indian queen,
Rocked in her hammock ’neath her native skies,
With the pathetic, passive, broken mien
Of one who, sorely proved,
Great-souled, hath suffered much and much hath loved!

But look! along the wide-branched, dewy glade
Glimmers the dawn: the light palmetto trees
And cypresses reissue from the shade,
And she hath wakened. Through clear air she sees
The pledge, the brightening ray,
And leaps from dreams to hail the coming day.


Life in Photos, November 25th

1. This weathered floor & floral rug.
Wonderful time spent with visiting family in this home.

2. These dainty lights.
Because who doesn’t love tiny lights all year round?

3. This vintage style lamp.
Reminiscent of my old home in florida.

4. This lovely gift from a kind elderly woman.
For the birth of my two sons.

5. This go-to hairstyle & flannel.
Simple and easy always wins.

6. These handy little jars.
Motherhood simplified.

7. Part of our Thanksgiving Day table.
Our first time celebrating the holiday alone and as a family of four.

“Too Fragile, Too Fleeting, Too Magical”

“Some moments are for Instagram, some are just for the moments itself. We’re encouraged to document everything important that happens to us. Birthdays, proposals, baby’s first this or that, crazy nights out when everyone’s outfit is on point. It’s cool, we all do it. What gets tricky is when something great happens and you didn’t capture it, then you feel this sense of loss. That sense of loss and anxiety that you didn’t get to your phone fast enough then completely overtakes the magic of the moment that just took place. So lately, I’ve learned to really live my life, and not worry so much about documenting every split second of it. The most magical, exquisite, spontaneous things happen when there is no time to grab your phone. The best moments of my life have been too fragile, too fleeting, too magical to even try to document them with a camera. And I wish you a lifetime of moments too beautiful to capture on film.” | Taylor Swift in Glamour UK: the lessons I’ve learned and how they empower me.

Beautifully said.

Every Leaf a Flower


“The season of autumn is the very essence of comfort. Everything about it feels so safe, so warm. A knit blanket, hot tea, a good book. Crisp wind blowing through the leaves outside your bedroom window. It feels like something out of a movie.” | via FaithfulFall


“things i love about autumn: waking up and my window is cold to the touch | foggy mornings | the forest is filled with 1000 different shades of colors | that smell you can’t describe as anything other than autumn | pumpkin spice lattes | halloween | wearing sweaters and boots and beanies | the crunch of leaves under my shoes | breathing in the cold air | stargazing on crisp nights | the feeling of coziness paired with adventure | drinking hot tea while reading a book outside” | tshifty


“October, crisp, misty, golden October, when the light is sweet and heavy.” | Angela Carter, The Magic Toyshop


“The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured coziness.” | P.G. Wodehouse


“Drown me in October winds, in blowing leaves that turn the color of fire.” via itsfallyall


“For as long as she could remember, she had thought that autumn air went well with books, that the two both somehow belonged with blankets, comfortable armchairs, and big cups of coffee or tea…” | Katarina Bivald


“The chill, shivery October morning came; not the October morning of the country, with soft, silvery mists, clearing off before the sunbeams that bring out all the gorgeous beauty of colouring, but the October morning of Milton, whose silver mists were were heavy fogs, and where the sun could only show long dusky streets when he did break through and shine.” | From North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell (1855)


“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” | Albert Camus


“It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.” | Sarah Addison Allen, First Frost


“Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn–that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness–that season which has drawn from every poet worthy of being read some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling.” | Jane Austen, Persuasion