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When the golden eye of dawn is launched
From the turbid belly of the sea,
And the gray gulls rise on sleepy wings in the azure sky of the Low Country;
Then Triton's ole friend the breeze comes to play among palmetto leaves,
And the marsh takes up its gentle dance
As the world is charmed in dawn's sweet trance.

Here in this place of jack vine and cotton
Where the "bob white's" song through fields abounds,
And attic trunks are rich with lore of dueling pistols and brocade gowns;
Crab gumbo, kedgeree, and terrapin stew,
Dark trusting eyes through windows, blue
Hag's breath and drolls and spirits roam,
Till the mist of morning sends them home.

When the "moon's full up" and wind lays right
It holds a steamboat's "mile out call,"
And the marsh tackeys whinney from their hidden dunes
As laughter echoes from old tabby walls;
White doric columns and palladian doors
And pirate shadows that haunt these shores,
And tales of lost plantation days and "Cabbage Row" and older ways.

When the fiery eye of dusk is set
Into the far, green distant trees, and the tasks of day are put away
As night's veil descends on the Low Country;
Ole owl in the "big wood" hoots once more
The gators stir and the nighthawks soar,
And life's wealth is measured in a pot of shrimp
And the smiles of friends and days well spent!

– Terry Moore ©2015