- Year Published: 1920
- Language: English
- Country of Origin: United States of America
- Source: Merrick, G. E. (1920). Songs of the wind on a southern shore, and other poems of florida. The Four Seas Publishing Co.
- Flesch–Kincaid Level: 7.2
- Word Count: 598
Merrick, G. (1920). “My Love is a Tourist”. Songs of the Wind on a Southern Shore, and other Poems of Florida (Lit2Go Edition). Retrieved May 22, 2015, from
Merrick, George E.. "“My Love is a Tourist”." Songs of the Wind on a Southern Shore, and other Poems of Florida. Lit2Go Edition. 1920. Web. <>. May 22, 2015.
George E. Merrick, "“My Love is a Tourist”," Songs of the Wind on a Southern Shore, and other Poems of Florida, Lit2Go Edition, (1920), accessed May 22, 2015,.
The Bob White calls!
Hear him usher in the day.
“Bob White!... Day’s bright!
Hustle up and join his lay;
“All right!—Bob White;”
Follow down his dewy way:
“Bob White,—you’re right!—
It’s sure enough—a brand new day!”
A day when dreams may come to be:
A day the floods that surge in me
May swell the banks of Always-So
And in to fields of Strived-For flow.
The Mocker trills!
Hear him fill the air with glee.
Why not mock!—Just as he!
Puncture woe with melody!
—(See that moody cat-bird flee!)&mdash
The Mocker trills.
An echo thrills:—
“There’s joy for birds—why not for me!”
There’s joys have always wondered why
I’ve never looked as I passed by.
Sing ho! for joys long-patient, kind:&mdas;
But what of the ones I’ve left behind?
Poinciana sets the day a-flare.
See the coral creeper’s show!
Catch the Myrtle’s crimson dare!
In flow’rs alone must red love flow?
Should plant and tree, unaided, bear
A-flaunt the banner love would blow!
O, Heart asleep’—Awake! And glow!
With the red of the Corals, Love beckons to me;
In flashing hibiscus her fires I see;
Through flaming acacia I know it is so
—My Love, She will come! Her flame I shall know!
The Secret Shrine
And still the sun swoons down the cotton,
Hushed, Expectant, quails the corn.
Old hopes fail: Yet, unforgotten,
In faintness dream of dewy morn.
Now, the gushing, red-crape myrtle:
Fateful, still,—the buzzard lone:
Is there naught within can hurtle
Far,—a crushing weight of stone?
Fools still see our clouds fair mountains;
Dreaming, deem our skies gem-blue:
Know they not life’s colour fountains
Found their spring in heart of you?
What are pines bemoaning ever?
Why the bamboos’ ceaseless sigh?
Will the palm leaves call forever:—
Endless; yearning aigrettes cry?
The call, that North-birds autumn-hearing
Brings winging back to southern sea,
Is stronger far my heart’s a-fearing
Than the call my soul yields to thee.
And so; though swoons the drooping cotton:
—Low, old Nature’s woes intone;—
Remains a shrine by all forgotten:
There I sit and brood alone.
At evening I wander alone to the sea.
The breakers that come bring solace to me;
And scarcely the gulls take trouble to flee
Away from my goal.
Yet, Evening turns somewhere within me a key:
And opens a room;
A secret deep room,
Far-hid in the house of my soul.
And nothing of land its answer can hold;
There’s nothing of Nature so flaming and bold:
And strange though it be, there’s nothing so old
In sea or in sky
As the questions and dreamings that endless unfold
From out of that room;—
That sweet-keeping room,
That seems older that I.
But sometimes my sea beneath the night blue
‘Comes a mirror for souls to see through.
...And once did I dream that my love was quite new!
...But now do I know
‘Tis older than life; ‘Tis the key and clew
That opens my room;
And keeps the deep room
A sweet place where none other may go.