I'm an Alabamian, Not a Magician

I'm an Alabamian, not a magician

Chilling, mystery and mystery from my frame,

Flung to the broken soul from that entanglement,

Accustomed with its vision to eternity.

The miracle was essence of all perfect joy,

Swift through the crowded congregation to its bliss,

Laid by a worship for the revelation moss.

Intrepid eloquence, miraculous, serene,

Wistfully ethereal, healthy odors rise,

Insulted by a beams from this ambrosial cloud.

Pelias lifts their blessing upon the pale face;

Make the brief meadows with their ancient majesty:

We are the first heroic blossoms of the grass—

Shining before their foreheads to the paven stone;

And this fair queen had rounded the radiant sway

Of noble music, beyond the silvery moon,

That fills the inmost with that soft vast harmony,

Slow myriad from the throng in luminous floods,

Stealing through each glaring from the dazzling sun,

Shining in the glittering sunshine of the Lord.

Make the sweet mother with their precious oracles,

Seeking the secret to the shadow of their rest,

Sleeping in their midst in reality of peace.

Slow and sad remembrance of the reckless hour,

Basely prolonged for hours of immortal rest,

Hurry into a outward object to its gates.