He brooded a moment. It wasn’t slavery, That stale red-herring of Yankee knavery Nor even states-rights, at least not solely, But something so dim that it must be holy. A voice, a fragrance, a taste of wine, A face half-seen in old candleshine, A yellow river, a blowing dust, Something beyond you that you must trust, Something so shrouded it must be great, The dead men building the living State From ’simmon-seed on a sandy bottom, The woman South in her rivers laving That body whiter than new-blown cotton And savage and sweet as wild-orange-blossom, The dark hair streams on the barbarous bosom, If there ever has been a land worth saving⁠— In Dixie land, I’ll take my stand, And live and die for Dixie!⁠ ⁠…