Light-leaved acacias, by the door,
	Stood up in balmy air,
	Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore,
	And breathed a perfume rare.

George MacDonald.    

	Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
	The acacia waves her yellow hair,
	Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
	For flow’ring in a wilderness.

Moore.    

	A great acacia, with its slender trunk
	And overpoise of multitudinous leaves,
	(In which a hundred fields might spill their dew
	And intense verdure, yet find room enough)
	Stood reconciling all the place with green.

E. B. Browning.    

	The slender acacia would not shake
	One long milk-bloom on the tree;
	The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
	As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
	But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
	Knowing your promise to me;
	The lilies and roses were all awake,
	They sighed for the dawn and thee.

Tennyson.    

	Pluck the acacia’s golden balls,
	And mark where the red pomegranate falls.

Julia C. R. Dorr.