![A Florida Sunday]()
From cold Norse caves or buccaneer Southern seas
Oft come repenting tempests here to die;
Bewailing old-time wrecks and robberies,
They shrive to priestly pines with many a sigh,
Breathe salutary balms through lank-lock'd hair
Of sick men's heads, and soon — this world outworn —
Sink into saintly heavens of stirless air,
Clean from confessional. One died, this morn,