So sing no song of the futile fir- No song of the tranquil teak, Nor the chestnut tree, with its bristling burr, Or the paw-paw of Posey creek; But fill my soul with a heavenly calm, And bring sweet dreams to me By singing a psalm of the itching palm And the blossoming Lambert tree.
"Eugene Field, A Study In Heredity And Contradictions"
Slason Thompson
Brice's my name-Posey Brice the boys 'n the glass-mill called me.
"Stories of the Foot-hills"
Margaret Collier Graham
There must be something special connected with the Posey, that was very evident, and the young man, who did not wish to excite her sensitive nerves unnecessarily, but could not recall his words, was wishing he had never spoken them, when the discovery of a feather fan cut the knot of his difficulty; he took it up, exclaiming: "Hey-what have we here?"
"The Complete Historical Romances of Georg Ebers"
Georg Ebers