This was his Georgia, this his share Of pine and river and sleepy air, Of summer thunder and winter rain That spills bright tears on the windowpane With the slight, fierce passion of young men’s grief, Of the mockingbird and the mulberry-leaf. For, wherever the winds of Georgia run, It smells of peaches long in the sun, And the white wolf-winter, hungry and frore, Can prowl the North by a frozen door But here we have fed him on bacon-fat And he sleeps by the stove like a lazy cat. Here Christmas stops at everyone’s house With a jug of molasses and green, young boughs, And the little New Year, the weakling one, Can lie outdoors in the noonday sun, Blowing the fluff from a turkey-wing At skies already haunted with Spring⁠—

Oh Georgia⁠ ⁠… Georgia⁠ ⁠… the careless yield! The watermelons ripe in the field! The mist in the bottoms that tastes of fever And the yellow river rolling forever⁠ ⁠… !