Wallace Stevens: "Farewell to Florida (II)"

"Her mind had bound me round. The palms were hot
As if I lived in ashen ground, as if
The leaves in which the wind kept up its sound
From my North of cold whistled in a sepulchral South,
Her South of pine and coral and coraline sea,
Her home, not mine, in the ever-freshened Keys,
Her days, her oceanic nights, calling
For music, for whisperings from the reefs. 
How content I shall be in the North to which I sail
And to feel sure and to forget the bleaching sand ... "