On the bayou, or the New Orleans lamps, The white-wine bubbles in the crystal cup, The almond blossoms, sleepy with the sun: But, nevertheless, you are the South in word, Deed, thought and temper, the cut cameo Brittle but durable, refined but fine, The hands well-shaped, not subtle, but not weak, The mind set in tradition but not unjust, The generous slaveholder, the gentleman Who neither forces his gentility Nor lets it be held lightly⁠— and yet, and yet I think you look too much like John Calhoun, I think your temper is too brittly-poised, I think your hands too scholar-sensitive, And though they say you mingle in your voice The trumpet and the harp, I think it lacks That gift of warming men which coarser voices Draw from the common dirt you tread upon But do not take in your hands. I think you are All things except success, all honesty Except the ultimate honesty of the earth, All talents but the genius of the sun. And yet I would not have you otherwise,