James Ryder Randall,
Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems
(1908)
“ Ah! the poor bough is withered, Alexandrine, Alexandrine! And withered am I by a pitiless doom, Like a blast from the lungs of the Demon Simoon; In the magical spell of a haunted ravine, Dost thou hear when I call thee, Alexandrine? Alexandrine! On my cheek there is health, all my mind is aglow, But my soul is the saddest Sahara, I know; For thought hath not compassed, and eye hath not seen The kingdom I’m banished from, Alexandrine, Alexandrine! ”
