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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76889-0.txt b/76889-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..91d4295 --- /dev/null +++ b/76889-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8826 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76889 *** + + + + + +CAROLING DUSK + + + + +_Books by Countee Cullen_ + + +Color +Copper Sun +The Ballad of the Brown Girl +The Medea +The Lost Zoo +My Lives and How I Lost Them +On These I Stand +One Way to Heaven + + +_Edited by Countee Cullen_ + +Caroling Dusk + + + + +CAROLING +DUSK + +_An Anthology of Verse +by Negro Poets_ + +Edited by +COUNTEE CULLEN + +HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS +New York, Evanston, San Francisco, London + + + + +CAROLING DUSK. Copyright 1927 by Harper & Brothers. Copyright renewed +1955 by Ida M. Cullen. All rights reserved. Printed in the United +States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced +in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the +case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. +For information address Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd +Street, New York, N. Y. 10022. Published simultaneously in Canada by +Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, Toronto. + +ISBN: 0-06-010926-2 + +LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 27-23175 + + + + +ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + + +For permission to use the poems in this anthology, the +editor wishes to thank the poets represented, and the following +magazines and publishers: + +Dodd, Mead and Co. for poems from _The Collected Poems +of Paul Laurence Dunbar_ + +Boni and Liveright for poems from _Cane_ by Jean Toomer + +Alfred A. Knopf for poems from _The Weary Blues_ and +_Fine Clothes to the Jew_ by Langston Hughes + +The Viking Press for “The Creation” from _God’s Trombones_ +by James Weldon Johnson + +The Cornhill Publishing Co. for poems from _The Band of +Gideon_ by Joseph S. Cotter, and from _Fifty Years and +other Poems_ by James Weldon Johnson, and from _The +Heart of a Woman_ by Georgia Douglas Johnson + +Harcourt, Brace & Co. for poems from _Harlem Shadows_ +by Claude McKay and for _A Litany of Atlanta_ by W. +E. B. DuBois + +Harper & Brothers for poems from _Color_ and _Copper Sun_ +by Countee Cullen + +B. J. Brimmer Co. for poems from _Bronze_ by Georgia +Douglas Johnson + +Opportunity: A Journal of Negro Life for _Desolate_ and +_My House_ by Claude McKay; _Old Black Men_ by Georgia +Douglas Johnson; _Summer Matures_, _Fulfillment_, _The +Road_ by Helene Johnson; _Portrait_ by George Leonard +Allen; _For the Candlelight_ by Angelina Weld Grimké; +_The Return_, _Golgotha Is a Mountain_, _The Day Breakers_, +and _God Give to Men_ by Arna Bontemps; _I Have a +Rendezvous With Life_ by Countee Cullen; _Lines Written +at the Grave of Alexander Dumas_ and _Hatred_ by Gwendolyn +B. Bennett; _Joy_, _Solace_, _Interim_ by Clarissa +Scott Delany; _Confession_ by Donald Jeffrey Hayes; +_On Seeing Two Brown Boys In a Catholic Church_ +and _To a Persistent Phantom_ by Frank Horne; _Poem_ +by Blanche Taylor Dickinson; _The New Negro_ by James +Edward McCall; _The Tragedy of Pete_ and _The Wayside +Well_ by Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.; _No Images_ by Waring +Cuney; _Northboun’_ by Lucy Ariel Williams; _Shadow_ +by Richard Bruce; _The Resurrection_ by Jonathan H. +Brooks; _Africa and Transformation_ by Lewis Alexander + +The Conning Tower of the New York World for _Noblesse +Oblige_ by Jessie Redmond Fauset + +The Crisis for _That Hill_ by Blanche Taylor Dickinson; +_Nocturne at Bethesda_ by Arna Bontemps; _Letters Found +Near a Suicide_ by Frank Horne; _Morning Light_ by +Mary Effie Lee Newsome; _Dunbar_ by Anne Spencer + +The Century for _My City_ by James Weldon Johnson + +Vanity Fair for _Bottled_ by Helene Johnson + +Palms for _A Tree Design_ by Arna Bontemps; _Lines to a +Nasturtium_ by Anne Spencer; _Black Madonna_ by Albert +Rice; _Words! Words!_ by Jessie Fauset; _Magula_ by +Helene Johnson; and _The Mask_ by Clarissa Scott +Delany + +Fire for _Jungle Taste_ by Edward S. Silvera; _Length of +Moon_ by Arna Bontemps; _The Death Bed_ by Waring +Cuney + +The World Tomorrow for _A Black Man Talks of Reaping_ +by Arna Bontemps + +The Survey for _Russian Cathedral_ by Claude McKay + +The Atlantic Monthly for _Nativity_ and _The Serving Girl_ +by Gladys Casley Hayford + +The Carolina Magazine for _The Dark Brother_ by Lewis +Alexander + + + + +FOREWORD + + +It is now five years since James Weldon Johnson +edited with a brilliant essay on “The Negro’s Creative +Genius” _The Book of American Negro Poetry_, four +years since the publication of Robert T. Kerlin’s _Negro +Poets and Their Poems_, and three years since from the +Trinity College Press in Durham, North Carolina, came +_An Anthology of Verse by American Negroes_, edited by +Newman Ivey White and Walter Clinton Jackson. The +student of verse by American Negro poets will find in +these three anthologies comprehensive treatment of the +work of Negro poets from Phyllis Wheatley, the first +American Negro known to have composed verses, to +writers of the present day. With Mr. Johnson’s scholarly +and painstaking survey, from both a historical +and a critical standpoint, of the entire range of verse +by American Negroes, and with Professor Kerlin’s inclusions +of excerpts from the work of most of those +Negro poets whose poems were extant at the time of +his compilation, there would be scant reason for the +assembling and publication of another such collection +were it not for the new voices that within the past three +to five years have sung so significantly as to make imperative +an anthology recording some snatches of their +songs. To those intelligently familiar with what is +popularly termed the renaissance in art and literature +by Negroes, it will not be taken as a sentimentally risky +observation to contend that the recent yearly contests +conducted by Negro magazines, such as _Opportunity_ +and _The Crisis_, as well as a growing tendency on the +part of white editors to give impartial consideration to +the work of Negro writers, have awakened to a happy +articulation many young Negro poets who had thitherto +lisped only in isolated places in solitary numbers. It is +primarily to give them a concerted hearing that this +collection has been published. For most of these poets +the publication of individual volumes of their poems is +not an immediate issue. However, many of their poems +during these four or five years of accentuated interest +in the artistic development of the race have become familiar +to a large and ever-widening circle of readers +who, we feel, will welcome a volume marshaling what +would otherwise remain for some time a miscellany of +deeply appreciated but scattered verse. + +The place of poetry in the cultural development of a +race or people has always been one of importance; +indeed, poets are prone, with many good reasons for +their conceit, to hold their art the most important. +Thus while essentially wishing to draw the public ear to +the work of the younger Negro poets, there have been +included with their poems those of modern Negro poets +already established and acknowledged, by virtue of their +seniority and published books, as worthy practitioners +of their art. There were Negro poets before Paul Laurence +Dunbar, but his uniquity as the first Negro to +attain to and maintain a distinguished place among +American poets, a place fairly merited by the most +acceptable standards of criticism, makes him the pivotal +poet of this volume. + +I have called this collection an anthology of verse by +Negro poets rather than an anthology of Negro verse, +since this latter designation would be more confusing +than accurate. Negro poetry, it seems to me, in the +sense that we speak of Russian, French, or Chinese +poetry, must emanate from some country other than +this in some language other than our own. Moreover, +the attempt to corral the outbursts of the ebony muse +into some definite mold to which all poetry by Negroes +will conform seems altogether futile and aside from the +facts. This country’s Negro writers may here and +there turn some singular facet toward the literary sun, +but in the main, since theirs is also the heritage of the +English language, their work will not present any serious +aberration from the poetic tendencies of their times. +The conservatives, the middlers, and the arch heretics +will be found among them as among the white poets; and +to say that the pulse beat of their verse shows generally +such a fever, or the symptoms of such an ague, will +prove on closer examination merely the moment’s exaggeration +of a physician anxious to establish a new literary +ailment. As heretical as it may sound, there is the +probability that Negro poets, dependent as they are on +the English language, may have more to gain from the +rich background of English and American poetry than +from any nebulous atavistic yearnings toward an African +inheritance. Some of the poets herein represented +will eventually find inclusion in any discriminatingly +ordered anthology of American verse, and there will +be no reason for giving such selections the needless +distinction of a separate section marked Negro verse. + +While I do not feel that the work of these writers +conforms to anything that can be called the Negro +school of poetry, neither do I feel that their work is +varied to the point of being sensational; rather is theirs +a variety within a uniformity that is trying to maintain +the higher traditions of English verse. I trust the +selections here presented bear out this contention. The +poet writes out of his experience, whether it be personal +or vicarious, and as these experiences differ among +other poets, so do they differ among Negro poets; for +the double obligation of being both Negro and American +is not so unified as we are often led to believe. A survey +of the work of Negro poets will show that the individual +diversifying ego transcends the synthesizing hue. From +the roots of varied experiences have flowered the dialect +of Dunbar, the recent sermon poems of James Weldon +Johnson, and some of Helene Johnson’s more colloquial +verses, which, differing essentially only in a few expressions +peculiar to Negro slang, are worthy counterparts +of verses done by John V. A. Weaver “in American.” +Attempt to hedge all these in with a name, and your +imagination must deny the facts. Langston Hughes, +poetizing the blues in his zeal to represent the Negro +masses, and Sterling Brown, combining a similar interest +in such poems as “Long Gone” and “The Odyssey of +Big Boy” with a capacity for turning a neat sonnet +according to the rules, represent differences as unique +as those between Burns and Whitman. Jessie Fauset +with Cornell University and training at the Sorbonne +as her intellectual equipment surely justifies the very +subjects and forms of her poems: “Touché,” “La Vie +C’est la Vie,” “Noblesse Oblige,” etc.; while Lewis Alexander, +with no known degree from the University of +Tokyo, is equally within the province of his creative +prerogatives in composing Japanese _hokkus_ and _tankas_. +Although Anne Spencer lives in Lynchburg, Virginia, +and in her biographical note recognizes the Negro +as the great American taboo, I have seen but two poems +by her which are even remotely concerned with this +subject; rather does she write with a cool precision +that calls forth comparison with Amy Lowell and the +influence of a rock-bound seacoast. And Lula Lowe +Weeden, the youngest poet in the volume, living in the +same Southern city, is too young to realize that she +is colored in an environment calculated to impress her +daily with the knowledge of this pigmentary anomaly. + +There are lights and shades of difference even in their +methods of decrying race injustices, where these peculiar +experiences of Negro life cannot be overlooked. +Claude McKay is most exercised, rebellious, and +vituperative to a degree that clouds his lyricism in many +instances, but silhouettes most forcibly his high dudgeon; +while neither Arna Bontemps, at all times cool, +calm, and intensely religious, nor Georgia Douglas +Johnson, in many instances bearing up bravely under +comparison with Sara Teasdale, takes advantage of the +numerous opportunities offered them for rhymed +polemics. + +If dialect is missed in this collection, it is enough to +state that the day of dialect as far as Negro poets are +concerned is in the decline. Added to the fact that +these poets are out of contact with this fast-dying medium, +certain sociological considerations and the natural +limitations of dialect for poetic expression militate +against its use even as a _tour de force_. In a day when +artificiality is so vigorously condemned, the Negro poet +would be foolish indeed to turn to dialect. The majority +of present-day poems in dialect are the efforts +of white poets. + +This anthology, by no means offered as _the_ anthology +of verse by Negro poets, is but a prelude, we hope, to +that fuller symphony which Negro poets will in time +contribute to the national literature, and we shall be +sadly disappointed if the next few years do not find +this collection entirely outmoded. + + * * * * * + +The biographical notices carried with these poems +have been written by the poets themselves save in three +cases (Dunbar’s having been written by his wife, the +younger Cotter’s by his father, and Lula Weeden’s by +her mother), and if they do not reveal to a curious +public all it might wish to know about the poets, they +at least reveal all that the poets deem necessary and +discreet for the public to know. + +COUNTEE CULLEN. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + FOREWORD vii + + PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes 2 + Death Song 4 + Life 5 + After the Quarrel 5 + Ships that Pass in the Night 7 + We Wear the Mask 8 + Sympathy 8 + The Debt 9 + + JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR. + The Tragedy of Pete 11 + The Way-side Well 15 + + JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + From the German of Uhland 17 + The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face 18 + The Creation 19 + The White Witch 22 + My City 25 + + WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DU BOIS + A Litany of Atlanta 26 + + WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE + Scintilla 31 + Rye Bread 31 + October XXIX, 1795 32 + Del Cascar 33 + + JAMES EDWARD MCCALL + The New Negro 34 + + ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ + Hushed by the Hands of Sleep 36 + Greenness 36 + The Eyes of My Regret 37 + Grass Fingers 38 + Surrender 38 + The Ways o’ Men 39 + Tenebris 40 + When the Green Lies Over the Earth 41 + A Mona Lisa 42 + Paradox 43 + Your Hands 44 + I Weep 45 + For the Candle Light 45 + Dusk 46 + The Puppet Player 46 + A Winter Twilight 46 + + ANNE SPENCER + Neighbors 47 + I Have a Friend 47 + Substitution 48 + Questing 48 + Life-long, Poor Browning 49 + Dunbar 50 + Innocence 51 + Creed 51 + Lines to a Nasturtium 52 + At the Carnival 53 + + MARY EFFIE LEE NEWSOME + Morning Light 55 + Pansy 56 + Sassafras Tea 56 + Sky Pictures 57 + The Quilt 58 + The Baker’s Boy 58 + Wild Roses 59 + Quoits 59 + + JOHN FREDERICK MATHEUS + Requiem 61 + + FENTON JOHNSON + When I Die 62 + Puck Goes to Court 63 + The Marathon Runner 64 + + JESSIE FAUSET + Words! Words! 65 + Touché 66 + Noblesse Oblige 67 + La Vie C’est la Vie 69 + The Return 70 + Rencontre 70 + Fragment 70 + + ALICE DUNBAR NELSON + Snow in October 71 + Sonnet 72 + I Sit and Sew 73 + + GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON + Service 75 + Hope 75 + The Suppliant 76 + Little Son 76 + Old Black Men 77 + Lethe 77 + Proving 77 + I Want to Die While You Love Me 78 + Recessional 79 + My Little Dreams 79 + What Need Have I for Memory? 80 + When I Am Dead 80 + The Dreams of the Dreamer 80 + The Heart of a Woman 81 + + CLAUDE MCKAY + America 83 + Exhortation: Summer, 1919 84 + Flame-heart 85 + The Wild Goat 87 + Russian Cathedral 87 + Desolate 88 + Absence 91 + My House 92 + + JEAN TOOMER + Reapers 94 + Evening Song 94 + Georgia Dusk 95 + Song of the Son 96 + Cotton Song 97 + Face 98 + November Cotton Flower 99 + + JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR. + Rain Music 100 + Supplication 101 + An April Day 102 + The Deserter 102 + And What Shall You Say? 103 + The Band of Gideon 103 + + BLANCHE TAYLOR DICKINSON + The Walls of Jericho 106 + Poem 107 + Revelation 107 + That Hill 109 + To an Icicle 110 + Four Walls 110 + + FRANK HORNE + On Seeing Two Brown Boys in a Catholic Church 112 + To a Persistent Phantom 113 + Letters Found Near a Suicide 114 + Nigger 120 + + LEWIS ALEXANDER + Negro Woman 122 + Africa 123 + Transformation 124 + The Dark Brother 124 + Tanka I-VIII 125 + Japanese Hokku 127 + Day and Night 129 + + STERLING A. BROWN + Odyssey of Big Boy 130 + Maumee Ruth 133 + Long Gone 134 + To a Certain Lady, in Her Garden 136 + Salutamus 138 + Challenge 138 + Return 139 + + CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY + Joy 140 + Solace 141 + Interim 142 + The Mask 143 + + LANGSTON HUGHES + I, Too 145 + Prayer 146 + Song for a Dark Girl 147 + Homesick Blues 147 + Fantasy in Purple 148 + Dream Variation 149 + The Negro Speaks of Rivers 149 + Poem 150 + Suicide’s Note 151 + Mother to Son 151 + A House in Taos 152 + + GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT + Quatrains 155 + Secret 155 + Advice 156 + To a Dark Girl 157 + Your Songs 157 + Fantasy 158 + Lines Written at the Grave of Alexander Dumas 159 + Hatred 160 + Sonnet--1 160 + Sonnet--2 161 + + ARNA BONTEMPS + The Return 163 + A Black Man Talks of Reaping 165 + To a Young Girl Leaving the Hill Country 165 + Nocturne at Bethesda 166 + Length of Moon 168 + Lancelot 169 + Gethsemane 169 + A Tree Design 170 + Blight 170 + The Day-breakers 171 + Close Your Eyes! 171 + God Give to Men 172 + Homing 172 + Golgotha Is a Mountain 173 + + ALBERT RICE + The Black Madonna 177 + + COUNTEE CULLEN + Lines to Our Elders 179 + I Have a Rendezvous with Life 180 + Protest 181 + Yet Do I Marvel 182 + To Lovers of Earth: Fair Warning 182 + From the Dark Tower 183 + To John Keats, Poet, at Springtime 184 + Four Epitaphs 186 + Incident 187 + + DONALD JEFFREY HAYES + Inscription 188 + Auf Wiedersehen 189 + Night 189 + Confession 190 + Nocturne 190 + After All 191 + + JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS + The Resurrection 193 + The Last Quarter Moon of the Dying Year 195 + Paean 195 + + GLADYS MAY CASELY HAYFORD + Nativity 197 + Rainy Season Love Song 198 + The Serving Girl 200 + Baby Cobina 200 + + LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS + Northboun’ 201 + + GEORGE LEONARD ALLEN + To Melody 204 + Portrait 204 + + RICHARD BRUCE + Shadow 206 + Cavalier 207 + + WARING CUNEY + The Death Bed 208 + A Triviality 209 + I Think I See Him There 210 + Dust 210 + No Images 212 + The Radical 212 + True Love 213 + + EDWARD S. SILVERA + South Street 214 + Jungle Taste 214 + + HELENE JOHNSON + What Do I Care for Morning 216 + Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem 217 + Summer Matures 217 + Poem 218 + Fulfillment 219 + The Road 221 + Bottled 221 + Magalu 223 + + WESLEY CURTWRIGHT + The Close of Day 225 + + LULA LOWE WEEDEN + Me Alone 227 + Have You Seen It 228 + Robin Red Breast 228 + The Stream 228 + The Little Dandelion 229 + Dance 229 + + INDEX 230 + + + + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + + +Paul Laurence Dunbar. Born, Dayton, Ohio, June 27, +1872. Educated in public schools, and graduated from +Dayton High School, where he achieved some distinction. +Editor of school paper, and noted as a versifier, from his +grammar-school days. Printed his first book, _Oak and +Ivy_, in 1893. + +Two friends of his early manhood helped most to shape +his career, and to encourage him in his days of struggle--Dr. +H. A. Tobey, the celebrated alienist of Toledo, Ohio, +and Frederick Douglass. The former helped him to bring +his second book, _Majors and Minors_, before the public; the +latter, with whom he was associated in the Negro Building +at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893, was the hero of the +poet’s dreams, the one to whom he dedicated two of his +most serious poems. + +Although Dunbar is remembered largely for his dialect +verse, it was never his intention to concentrate on dialect. +His poems in pure English constitute the greater bulk of +his verse, and that to which he was most passionately devoted. +The tragedy of his life was that the world “turned +to praise the jingle in a broken tongue.” His friendship +for Booker Washington and a visit to Tuskegee inspired +him to write the Tuskegee School Song, which is sung to +the tune of “Fair Harvard.” + +The famous criticism of _Majors and Minors_ by William +Dean Howells in _Harper’s Weekly_, June 27, 1897 established +Dunbar’s prestige as an important figure in American +literature. From that time his success was assured. + +He was married to Alice Ruth Moore of New Orleans, a +teacher in Brooklyn, N. Y., in March, 1898. + +He was as indefatigable a writer of prose as of poetry; +short stories, novels, criticism, essays and some short plays +poured from his pen. His published works, exclusive of +the two volumes of verse mentioned above, are: _Lyrics of +Lowly Life_, _Lyrics of the Hearthside_, _Lyrics of Sunshine +and Shadow_; several smaller volumes, illustrated editions +of poems in the preceding volumes; short stories, _Folks +from Dixie_, _The Strength of Gideon_; novels, _The Uncalled_, +_The Fanatics_, _The Love of Landry_, _The Sport of +the Gods_. + +He died in Dayton, Ohio, February 9, 1906. + +_Alice Dunbar Nelson._ + + +ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO +SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES[1] + +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, +Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought +The magic gold which from the seeker flies; +Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought, +And make the waking world a world of lies,-- +Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn, +That say life’s full of aches and tears and sighs,-- +Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. + +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, +How all the griefs and heartaches we have known +Come up like pois’nous vapors that arise +From some base witch’s caldron, when the crone, +To work some potent spell, her magic plies. +The past which held its share of bitter pain, +Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise, +Comes up, is lived and suffered o’er again, +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. + +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, +What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room; +What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise +Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom. +What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries, +And pangs of vague inexplicable pain +That pay the spirit’s ceaseless enterprise, +Come thronging through the chambers of the brain, +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. + +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, +Where ranges forth the spirit far and free? +Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies +Tends her far course to lands of mystery? +To lands unspeakable--beyond surmise, +Where shapes unknowable to being spring, +Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies +Much wearied with the spirit’s journeying, +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. + +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes, +How questioneth the soul that other soul,-- +The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies, +But self exposes unto self, a scroll +Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise, +In characters indelible and known; +So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise, +The soul doth view its awful self alone, +Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes. + +When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes, +The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm, +And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize +For kissing all our passions into calm, +Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries, +Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery, +Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies, +At glooms through which our visions cannot see, +When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes. + + +DEATH SONG[2] + +Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, +Whah de branch’ll go a-singin’ as it pass. +An’ w’en I’s a-layin’ low, +I kin hyeah it as it go +Singin’, “Sleep, my honey, tek yo’ res’ at las’.” + +Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, +An’ de watah stan’s so quiet lak an’ cool, +Whah de little birds in spring, +Ust to come an’ drink an’ sing, +An’ de chillen waded on dey way to school. + +Let me settle w’en my shouldahs draps dey load +Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; + Fu’ I t’ink de las’ long res’ + Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes’ +If I’s layin’ ’mong de t’ings I’s allus knowed. + + +LIFE[3] + +A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, +A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, +A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, +And never a laugh but the moans come double: + And that is life! + +A crust and a corner that love makes precious, +With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us: +And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, +And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter: + And that is life! + + +AFTER THE QUARREL[4] + +So we, who’ve supped the self-same cup, +To-night must lay our friendship by; +Your wrath has burned your judgment up, +Hot breath has blown the ashes high. +You say that you are wronged--ah, well, +I count that friendship poor, at best +A bauble, a mere bagatelle, +That cannot stand so slight a test. + +I fain would still have been your friend, +And talked and laughed and loved with you; +But since it must, why, let it end; +The false but dies, ’tis not the true. +So we are favored, you and I, +Who only want the living truth. +It was not good to nurse the lie; +’Tis well it died in harmless youth. + +I go from you to-night to sleep. +Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve? +I have no fund of tears to weep +For happenings that undeceive. +The days shall come, the days shall go +Just as they came and went before. +The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow +Though you and I are friends no more. + +And in the volume of my years, +Where all my thoughts and acts shall be, +The page whereon your name appears +Shall be forever sealed to me. +Not that I hate you over-much, +’Tis less of hate than love defied; +Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch, +We’ll go our ways, the world is wide. + + +SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE +NIGHT[5] + +Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; +I look far out into the pregnant night, +Where I can hear a solemn booming gun +And catch the gleaming of a random light, +That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing. + +My tearful eyes my soul’s deep hurt are glassing; +For I would hail and check that ship of ships. +I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, +My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips, +And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing. + +O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, +O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! +Is there no hope for me? Is there no way +That I may sight and check that speeding bark +Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing? + + +WE WEAR THE MASK[6] + +We wear the mask that grins and lies, +It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-- +This debt we pay to human guile; +With torn and bleeding hearts we smile, +And mouth with myriad subtleties. + +Why should the world be over-wise, +In counting all our tears and sighs? +Nay, let them only see us, while + We wear the mask. + +We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries +To thee from tortured souls arise. +We sing, but oh the clay is vile +Beneath our feet, and long the mile; +But let the world dream otherwise, + We wear the mask! + + +SYMPATHY[7] + +I know what the caged bird feels, alas! +When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; +When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass +And the river flows like a stream of glass; +When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, +And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-- +I know what the caged bird feels! + +I know why the caged bird beats his wing +Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; +For he must fly back to his perch and cling +When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; +And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars +And they pulse again with a keener sting-- + +I know why he beats his wing! +I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, +When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,-- +When he beats his bars and he would be free; +It is not a carol of joy or glee, +But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core, +But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-- +I know why the caged bird sings! + + +THE DEBT[8] + +This is the debt I pay +Just for one riotous day, +Years of regret and grief, +Sorrow without relief. + +Pay it I will to the end-- +Until the grave, my friend, +Gives me a true release-- +Gives me the clasp of peace. + +Slight was the thing I bought, +Small was the debt I thought, +Poor was the loan at best-- +God! but the interest! + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + +[2] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + +[3] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + +[4] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + +[5] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + +[6] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + +[7] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + +[8] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc. + + + + +JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR. + + +“I was born in Nelson County, Ky., February 2nd, 1861, +on a farm owned by my great grandfather, Daniel Stapp, +a tanner. In 1829 he bought himself and a part of his +master’s farm. Later he bought his daughter, Lucinda, +my mother’s mother. + +Martha, my mother, was born on a nearby farm owned +by her English-Indian father, Fleming Vaughan. Prior +to my birth she lived in Bardstown and was a servant at +“My Old Kentucky Home.” She took me to Bardstown +soon after my birth and brought me to Louisville in my +fourth week, and here I have lived ever since. + +I attended a private school and could read before my +fourth year. Conditions were such that my attendance at +school was very irregular. I quit school in my eighth +year, having completed the third grade, and did not return +until my twenty-second year. + +During this time I picked up rags in the streets and +worked in tobacco factories and brick-yards. My nineteenth +year found me a distiller in one of the largest +distilleries in Kentucky. A turn of fortune made me a +teamster. I hauled cotton and tobacco and made up my +mind to enter the prize ring. Another turn of fortune +put me into a Louisville public night school. Here I +began in the third grade where I left off in my eighth +year. + +At the end of two school sessions of five months each +I was promoted to the high school. I keep this diploma +under lock and key, for it is the only one I have ever +received. + +The man who turned my attention from prize-fighting to +night school and then to school teaching, and who discovered +my knack for writing verses, was Dr. W. T. +Peyton of Louisville. He was my greatest benefactor. + +My talent of whatever kind comes from Martha, my +mother. She was poet, story-teller, dramatist and musician. +My published works are: _A Rhyming_, _Links of +Friendship_, _Caleb, the Degenerate_, a poetic drama, _A White +Song And A Black One_ and _Negro Tales_. My unpublished +works are: _Life’s Dawn And Dusk_, poems, _Caesar +Driftwood and Other One Act Plays_ and _My Mother And +Her Family_.” + + +THE TRAGEDY OF PETE + +There was a man + Whose name was Pete, +And he was a buck + From his head to his feet. + +He loved a dollar, + But hated a dime; +And so was poor + Nine-tenths of the time. + +The Judge said “Pete, + What of your wife?” +And Pete replied + “She lost her life.” + +“Pete,” said the Judge, + “Was it lost in a row? +Tell me quick, + And tell me how.” + +Pete straightened up + With a hic and a sigh, +Then looked the Judge + Full in the eye. + +“O, Judge, my wife + Would never go +To a Sunday dance + Or a movie show. + +“But I went, Judge, + Both day and night, +And came home broke + And also tight. + +“The moon was up, + My purse was down, +And I was the bully + Of the bootleg town. + +“I was crooning a lilt + To corn and rye +For the loop in my legs + And the fight in my eye. + +“I met my wife; + She was wearing a frown, +And catechising + Her Sunday gown. + +‘O Pete, O Pete’ + She cried aloud, +‘The Devil is falling + Right out of a cloud.’ + +“I looked straight up + And fell flat down +And a Ford machine + Pinned my head to the ground. + +“The Ford moved on, + And my wife was in it; +And I was sober, + That very minute. + +“For my head was bleeding, + My heart was a-flutter; +And the moonshine within me + Was tipping the gutter. + +“The Ford, it faster + And faster sped +Till it dipped and swerved + And my wife was dead. + +“Two bruised men lay + In a hospital ward-- +One seeking vengeance, + The other the Lord. + +“He said to me: + ‘Your wife was drunk, +You are crazy, + And my Ford is junk.’ + +“I raised my knife + And drove it in +At the top of his head + And the point of his chin. + +“O Judge, O Judge, + If the State has a chair, +Please bind me in it + And roast me there.” + +There was a man + Whose name was Pete, +And he welcomed death + From his head to his feet. + + +THE WAY-SIDE WELL + +A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well. +It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish. +It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s end beckons me on. +It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile’s + end keeps time with their tread? +It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile’s end is food for my being. +I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it. +Ah, it is dry. +Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells. You may + not know they are dry ’til you question their depths. +Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints miss their crown. + + + + +JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + + +James Weldon Johnson was born in Jacksonville, Fla. +He graduated from Atlanta University with the degree of +A. B., and he received the degree of A. M. from the same +University in 1904. He spent three years in graduate +work at Columbia University in the City of New York. +The honorary degree of Litt.D. was conferred upon him +by Talladega College, Talladega, Ala., in 1917, and by +Howard University in 1923. + +For several years Mr. Johnson was principal of the +colored high school at Jacksonville. He was admitted to +the Florida bar in 1897, and practiced law in Jacksonville, +until 1901, when he moved to New York to collaborate +with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, in writing for the +light opera stage. + +In 1906, he was appointed United States Consul at +Puerto Cabello, Venezuela, being transferred as Consul to +Corinto, Nicaragua, in 1909. While in Corinto, he looked +after the interests of his country during the stormy days +of revolution which resulted in the downfall of Zelaya, and +through the abortive revolution against Diaz. + +His knowledge of Spanish has been put to use in the +translation of a number of Spanish plays. He was the +translator for the English libretto of _Goyescas_, the Spanish +grand opera produced by the Metropolitan Opera Company +in 1915. + +Mr. Johnson was for ten years the Contributing Editor +of the New York _Age_. He added to his distinction as a +newspaper writer by winning in an editorial contest one +of three prizes offered by the Philadelphia _Public Ledger_ +in 1916. His poems have appeared in the _Century_, the +_Independent_, the _Crisis_ and other publications. + +In the spring of 1920, Mr. Johnson was sent by the +National Association for the Advancement of Colored +People to the black republic of Haiti, where he made an +investigation of U. S. misrule. The charges which Mr. +Johnson published in _The Nation_, of New York, upon his +return were taken up by Senator Harding, and as a consequence +a Naval Board of Inquiry was sent to Haiti and +a Congressional Investigation promised. The articles published +in _The Nation_ have since been republished in a +pamphlet entitled, “Self-Determining Haiti.” + +Mr. Johnson is Secretary of the National Association +for the Advancement of Colored People, a member of the +Board of Directors of the American Fund for Public +Service (The Garland Fund), and a trustee of Atlanta +University. + +Mr. Johnson’s works include: + +_The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man_ +_Fifty Years and Other Poems_ +_English Libretto of “Goyescas”_ +_The Book of American Negro Poetry_ +_The Book of American Negro Spirituals_ +_Second Book of Negro Spirituals_ +_God’s Trombones (Seven Negro Sermons in Verse)_ + + +FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND + +Three students once tarried over the Rhine, +And into Frau Wirthin’s turned to dine. + +“Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine? +And where is that pretty daughter of thine?” + +“My beer and wine is fresh and clear. +My daughter lies on her funeral bier.” + +They softly tipped into the room; +She lay there in the silent gloom. + +The first the white cloth gently raised, +And tearfully upon her gazed. + +“If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid, +My heart at thy feet would to-day be laid!” + +The second covered her face again. +And turned away with grief and pain. + +“Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier! +And I have loved thee so many a year.” + +The third drew back again the veil, +And kissed the lips so cold and pale. + +“I’ve loved thee always, I love thee to-day, +And will love thee, yes, forever and aye!” + + +THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN +HER FACE + +The glory of the day was in her face, +The beauty of the night was in her eyes. +And over all her loveliness, the grace +Of Morning blushing in the early skies. + +And in her voice, the calling of the dove; +Like music of a sweet, melodious part. +And in her smile, the breaking light of love; +And all the gentle virtues in her heart. + +And now the glorious day, the beauteous night, +The birds that signal to their mates at dawn, +To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight +Are one with all the dead, since she is gone. + + +THE CREATION + +(A Negro Sermon) + +And God stepped out on space, +And he looked around and said, +“_I’m lonely-- +I’ll make me a world_.” + +And far as the eye of God could see +Darkness covered everything, +Blacker than a hundred midnights +Down in a cypress swamp. + +Then God smiled, +And the light broke, +And the darkness rolled up on one side, +And the light stood shining on the other, +And God said, “_That’s good!_” + +Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, +And God rolled the light around in His hands +Until He made the sun; +And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. +And the light that was left from making the sun +God gathered it up in a shining ball +And flung it against the darkness, +Spangling the night with the moon and stars. +Then down between +The darkness and the light +He hurled the world; +And God said, “_That’s good!_” + +Then God himself stepped down-- +And the sun was on His right hand, +And the moon was on His left; +The stars were clustered about His head, +And the earth was under His feet. +And God walked, and where He trod +His footsteps hollowed the valleys out +And bulged the mountains up. + +Then He stopped and looked and saw +That the earth was hot and barren. +So God stepped over to the edge of the world +And He spat out the seven seas; +He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; +He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; +And the waters above the earth came down, +The cooling waters came down. + +Then the green grass sprouted, +And the little red flowers blossomed, +The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, +And the oak spread out his arms, +The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, +And the rivers ran down to the sea; +And God smiled again, +And the rainbow appeared, +And curled itself around His shoulder. + +Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand +Over the sea and over the land, +And He said, “_Bring forth! Bring forth!_” +And quicker than God could drop His hand, +Fishes and fowls +And beasts and birds +Swam the rivers and the seas, +Roamed the forests and the woods, +And split the air with their wings. +And God said, “_That’s good!_” + +Then God walked around, +And God looked around +On all that He had made. +He looked at His sun, +And He looked at His moon, +And He looked at His little stars; +He looked on His world +With all its living things, +And God said, “_I’m lonely still._” + +Then God sat down +On the side of a hill where He could think; +By a deep, wide river He sat down; +With His head in His hands, +God thought and thought, +Till He thought, “_I’ll make me a man!_” + +Up from the bed of the river +God scooped the clay; +And by the bank of the river +He kneeled Him down; +And there the great God Almighty +Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, +Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, +Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; +This Great God, +Like a mammy bending over her baby, +Kneeled down in the dust +Toiling over a lump of clay +Till He shaped it in His own image; + +Then into it He blew the breath of life, +And man became a living soul. +Amen. Amen. + + +THE WHITE WITCH + +O brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +Trust not your prowess nor your strength, +Your only safety lies in flight; +For in her glance is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + +The great white witch you have not seen? +Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, +Like nursery children you have looked +For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; +But no, not so; the witch appears +In all the glowing charms of youth. + +Her lips are like carnations, red, +Her face like new-born lilies, fair, +Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, +She moves with subtle grace and air, +And all about her head there floats +The golden glory of her hair. + +But though she always thus appears +In form of youth and mood of mirth, +Unnumbered centuries are hers, +The infant planets saw her birth; +The child of throbbing Life is she, +Twin sister to the greedy earth. + +And back behind those smiling lips, +And down within those laughing eyes, +And underneath the soft caress +Of hand and voice and purring sighs, +The shadow of the panther lurks, +The spirit of the vampire lies. + +For I have seen the great white witch, +And she has led me to her lair, +And I have kissed her red, red lips +And cruel face so white and fair; +Around me she has twined her arms, +And bound me with her yellow hair. + +I felt those red lips burn and sear +My body like a living coal; +Obeyed the power of those eyes +As the needle trembles to the pole; +And did not care although I felt +The strength go ebbing from my soul. + +Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, +And heard your laughter loud and gay, +And in your voices she has caught +The echo of a far-off day, +When man was closer to the earth; +And she has marked you for her prey. + +She feels the old Antaean strength +In you, the great dynamic beat +Of primal passions, and she sees +In you the last besieged retreat +Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, +Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet. + +O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! +The great white witch rides out to-night. +O, younger brothers mine, beware; +Look not upon her beauty bright; +For in her glance there is a snare, +And in her smile there is a blight. + + +MY CITY + +When I come down to sleep death’s endless night, +The threshold of the unknown dark to cross, +What to me then will be the keenest loss, +When this bright world blurs on my fading sight? +Will it be that no more I shall see the trees +Or smell the flowers or hear the singing birds +Or watch the flashing streams or patient herds? +No, I am sure it will be none of these. + +But, ah! Manhattan’s sights and sounds, her smells, +Her crowds, her throbbing force, the thrill that comes +From being of her a part, her subtile spells, +Her shining towers, her avenues, her slums-- +O God! the stark, unutterable pity, +To be dead, and never again behold my city! + + + + +WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DU BOIS + + +I was born in Massachusetts and educated in her schools, +at Fisk University, at Harvard and Berlin. My first published +writings were news notes in _The New York Age_. +Then I had an article in _The Atlantic Monthly_, and in 1896 +my doctor’s thesis on the slave trade was published as my +first book. _The Souls of Black Folk_ appeared in 1903 +and one or two other books thereafter. I taught at Wilberforce, +Pennsylvania and Atlanta and became editor of +_The Crisis_ in 1910. + + +A LITANY OF ATLANTA[9] + +Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906. + +O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and +mystery hath left our ears an-hungered in these fearful +days-- + +_Hear us, good Lord!_ + +Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt +are made a mockery in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted +hands we front Thy heaven, O God crying: + +_We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but +weak and human men. When our devils do deviltry, +curse Thou the doer and the deed: curse them as we +curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have +done to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and +home. + +_Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!_ + +And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these +devils? Who nursed them in crime and fed them on injustice? +Who ravished and debauched their mothers +and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their +crime, and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity? + +_Thou knowest, good God!_ + +Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier +than innocence, and the innocent crucified for the guilt +of the untouched guilty? + +_Justice, O Judge of men!_ + +Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers +dead? Have not seers seen in Heaven’s halls Thine +hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the black and +rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms +of endless dead? + +_Awake, Thou that sleepest!_ + +Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless +light, thru blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do +swing of good and gentle men, of women strong and free--far +from the cozenage, black hypocrisy and chaste +prostitution of this shameful speck of dust! + +_Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!_ + +From lust of body and lust of blood +_Great God, deliver us!_ + +From lust of power and lust of gold, +_Great God, deliver us!_ + +From the leagued lying of despot and of brute, +_Great God, deliver us!_ + +A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her +loins sprang twin Murder and Black Hate. Red was +the midnight; clang, crack and cry of death and fury +filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when +church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this +was to sate the greed of greedy men who hide behind +the veil of vengeance! + +_Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!_ + +In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. +We stopped our ears and held our leaping hands, but +they--did they not wag their heads and leer and cry +with bloody jaws: _Cease from Crime!_ The word was +mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while +we do cure one. + +_Turn again our captivity, O Lord!_ + +Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it +was an humble black man who toiled and sweat to save +a bit from the pittance paid him. They told him: +_Work and Rise_. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, +but some one told how some one said another did--one +whom he had never seen nor known. Yet for that man’s +crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife +naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil. + +_Hear us, O Heavenly Father!_ + +Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, +O God? How long shall the mounting flood of innocent +blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our hearts for +vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes +who do such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, +and burn it in hell forever and forever! + +_Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!_ + +Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the +madness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; +straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we raise our +shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of +our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, +by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: _What +meaneth this?_ Tell us the Plan; give us the Sign! + +_Keep not Thou silence, O God!_ + +Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer +and dumb to our dumb suffering. Surely, Thou too art +not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, heartless thing? + +_Ah! Christ of all the Pities!_ + +Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous +words. Thou art still the God of our black +fathers, and in Thy soul’s soul sit some soft darkenings +of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night. + +But whisper--speak--call, great God, for Thy silence +is white terror to our hearts! The way, O God, +show us the way and point us the path. + +Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, +the coward, and without the liar. Whither? To death? + +_Amen! Welcome dark sleep!_ + +Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not +this. Let the cup pass from us, tempt us not beyond +our strength, for there is that clamoring and clawing +within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder +lest we must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and +awful shape. + +_Selah!_ + +In yonder East trembles a star. +_Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!_ + +Thy will, O Lord, be done! +_Kyrie Eleison!_ + +Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. +_We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little + children. +_We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_ + +Our voices sink in silence and in night. +_Hear us, good Lord!_ + +In night, O God of a godless land! +_Amen!_ + +In silence, O Silent God. +_Selah!_ + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[9] From “Dark Water” by W. E. B. Du Bois, Copyright 1920 by Harcourt, +Brace & Company, Inc. + + + + +WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE + + +William Stanley Braithwaite was born in Boston +Dec. 6, 1878. He inherited the incentives and ideals of the +intellect from an ancestry of British gentlemen. He has +written verse and prose and was for many years leading +reviewer of books in the _Boston Transcript_. He has published +twenty volumes, and his yearly anthology of verse +establishes for each year the best poetry printed in the +magazines. + + +SCINTILLA + +I kissed a kiss in youth + Upon a dead man’s brow; +And that was long ago,-- + And I’m a grown man now. + +It’s lain there in the dust, + Thirty years and more;-- +My lips that set a light + At a dead man’s door. + + +RYE BREAD + +Father John’s bread was made of rye, +Felicite’s bread was white; +Father John loved the sun noon-high, +Felicite, the moon at night. + +Father John drank wine with his bread; +Felicite drank sweet milk; +Father John loved flowers, pungent and red; +Felicite, lilies soft as silk. + +Father John’s soul was made of bronze, +That God’s salt was corroding; +Felicite’s soul was a wind that runs +With a blue flame of foreboding. + +Between these two was the shadow of a dome +That cut their lives in twain; +But Dionysus led them home +In a chariot of pain. + + +OCTOBER XXIX, 1795 + +(Keats’ Birthday) + +Time sitting on the throne of Memory +Bade all her subject Days the past had known +Arise and say what thing gave them renown +Unforgetable, ‘Rising from the sea, +I gave the Genoese his dreams to be;’ +‘I saw the Corsican’s Guards swept down;’ +‘Colonies I made free from a tyrant’s crown;’-- +So each Day told its immortality. + +And with these blazing triumphs spoke one voice +Whose wistful speech no vaunting did employ: +‘I know not if ’twere by Fate’s chance or choice +I hold the lowly birth of an English boy; +I only know he made man’s heart rejoice +Because he played with Beauty for a toy!’ + + +DEL CASCAR + +Del Cascar, Del Cascar +Stood upon a flaming star, +Stood and let his feet hang down +Till in China the toes turned brown. + +And he reached his fingers over +The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, +And caught a Mandarin at prayer, +And tickled his nose in Orion’s hair. + +The sun went down through crimson bars, +And left his blind face battered with stars-- +But the brown toes in China kept +Hot the tears Del Cascar wept. + + + + +JAMES EDWARD McCALL + + +James Edward McCall was born September 2, 1880 at +Montgomery, Ala., and received his early education in the +public schools of that city. Graduating from the Alabama +State Normal in 1900 he entered Howard University as +a medical student the same year, but some months later +was forced to abandon his medical career, following an +attack of typhoid fever leading to total blindness. Undaunted +by this misfortune, he at once set out to develop +his literary talent. During this period he read and studied +much through the eyes of others, also writing many poems, +a number of which were published in Southern dailies, the +_New York World_ and other periodicals. _The Montgomery_ +(Alabama) _Advertiser_ styled him “The Blind Tom of +Literature.” One of his poems, “_Meditation_,” has been +compared to Bryant’s “Thanatopsis.” + +Despite his handicap, McCall determined to acquire a +college education. Accompanied by his sister, he entered +Albion College (Michigan) in 1905, where he was graduated +two years later, being the only sightless student in +the college. Returning to his natal city, he took up journalistic +work, for some years being employed as a special +writer for one of the local white dailies, also contributing +to other periodicals, and ultimately publishing at Montgomery +a successful race weekly--_The Emancipator_. + +This blind writer is ably assisted in his journalistic +work by his wife, to whom he was married in 1914. He +and his family moved to Detroit in 1920. He is city +editor and editorial writer for the _Detroit Independent_, +his editorials in this publication having been widely read +and re-published throughout the country during the past +two years. + + +THE NEW NEGRO + +He scans the world with calm and fearless eyes, + Conscious within of powers long since forgot; +At every step, new man-made barriers rise + To bar his progress--but he heeds them not. +He stands erect, though tempests round him crash, + Though thunder bursts and billows surge and roll; +He laughs and forges on, while lightnings flash + Along the rocky pathway to his goal. +Impassive as a Sphinx, he stares ahead-- + Foresees new empires rise and old ones fall; +While caste-mad nations lust for blood to shed, + He sees God’s finger writing on the wall. +With soul awakened, wise and strong he stands, +Holding his destiny within his hands. + + + + +ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ + + +Angelina Weld Grimké was born in Boston, Mass., February +27, 1880. She was a student at Carleton Academy, +Northfield, Minn., Cushing Academy, Ashburnham, Mass., +and Girls’ Latin School, Boston. In 1902 she was graduated +from the Boston Normal School of Gymnastics. +In 1902 she began her career as a teacher in the Armstrong +Manual Training School in Washington, D. C.; +since 1916 she has taught in the Dunbar High School +in the same city. She is the author of a three act play +_Rachel_ published in 1920, short stories, and numerous +poems. + + +HUSHED BY THE HANDS OF SLEEP + +(To Dr. George F. Grant) + + +_I_ + +Hushed by the hands of Sleep, + By the beautiful hands of Sleep. +Very gentle and quiet he lies, +With a little smile of sweet surprise, +Just softly hushed at lips and eyes, + Hushed by the hands of Sleep, + By the beautiful hands of Sleep. + + +_II_ + +Hushed by the hands of Sleep, + By the beautiful hands of Sleep. +Death leaned down as his eyes grew dim, +And his face, I know, was not strange, not grim, +But oh! it was beautiful to him, + Hushed by the hands of Sleep, + By the beautiful hands of Sleep. + + +GREENNESS + +Tell me is there anything lovelier, + Anything more quieting +Than the green of little blades of grass +And the green of little leaves? + +Is not each leaf a cool green hand, +Is not each blade of grass a mothering green finger, +Hushing the heart that beats and beats and beats? + + +THE EYES OF MY REGRET + +Always at dusk, the same tearless experience, +The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path +To the same well-worn rock; +The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun, +The same tints--rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey, +Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily; +Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to a point; +Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars, +Two eyes unfathomable, soul-searing, +Watching, watching--watching me; +The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will dusk after dusk; +The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the night, chin on knees, +Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly miserable,--The eyes of my + Regret. + + +GRASS FINGERS + +Touch me, touch me, +Little cool grass fingers, +Elusive, delicate grass fingers. +With your shy brushings, +Touch my face-- +My naked arms-- +My thighs-- +My feet. +Is there nothing that is kind? +You need not fear me. +Soon I shall be too far beneath you, +For you to reach me, even, +With your tiny, timorous toes. + + +SURRENDER + +We ask for peace. We, at the bound +O life, are weary of the round +In search of Truth. We know the quest +Is not for us, the vision blest +Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned, +We go, with heads bowed to the ground, +And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned. +Let us forget the past unrest,-- + We ask for peace. + +Our strainéd ears are deaf,--no sound +May reach them more; no sight may wound +Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best, +And, while we totter down the West, +Unto that last, that open mound,-- + We ask for peace. + + +THE WAYS O’ MEN + +’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, +Their comin’s and their goin’s; +For there’s the grey road, + The straight road +With the grey dust liftin’ + With ev’ry step +And the little roads off-flingin’. + +Maybe it’s a bit of a sly field +That crooks a finger to them +And sends them to the turnin’; +Or the round firm bosom + Of a little hill +Acallin’ to them, them with their heads + That heavy; +Or maybe it’s the black look + Given out of the tail of the eye; +Or a white word, wingin’; +Maybe it’s only the back of a little tot’s neck + In the sunlight; +Or the red lips of a woman + Parting slow.... + Sure there’s no tellin’. + +One I saw goin’ towards a white star + At the edge of a daffydill sky, + Its lights kissin’ straight into his eyes. +Maybe it’s a gold piece +To be taken from another + In the dark; +Or the neat place between the ribs +Waitin’ for the knife +That one comes after carryin’ for it. +’Tis few, it is, that goes with the grey road + The straight road + All the way, +With the grey dust liftin’ at ev’ry step. + +’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, +With a level look at you, or a crooked + As they be passin’. + Pouf! +Sure, ’tis so fast they’re goin’, +Does it matter about the turnin’s? + + +TENEBRIS + +There is a tree, by day, +That, at night, +Has a shadow, +A hand huge and black, +With fingers long and black. + All through the dark, +Against the white man’s house, + In the little wind, +The black hand plucks and plucks + At the bricks. +The bricks are the color of blood and very small. + Is it a black hand, + Or is it a shadow? + + +WHEN THE GREEN LIES OVER +THE EARTH + +When the green lies over the earth, my dear, +A mantle of witching grace, +When the smile and the tear of the young child year +Dimple across its face, +And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet +With the breath of growing things, +When the wooing bird lights on restless feet +And chirrups and trills and sings + To his lady-love + In the green above, +Then oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, +Yours is the face that I long to have near, + Yours is the face, my dear. + +But the green is hiding your curls, my dear, +Your curls so shining and sweet; +And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year +Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet, +And the little birds just above your head +With their voices hushed, my dear, +For you have sung and have prayed and have pled + This many, many a year. + + And the blossoms fall, + On the garden wall, +And drift like snow on the green below. + But the sharp thorn grows + On the budding rose, +And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow. +For oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, +Yours is the face that I long to have near, +Yours is the face, my dear. + + +A MONA LISA + + +1. + +I should like to creep +Through the long brown grasses + That are your lashes; +I should like to poise + On the very brink +Of the leaf-brown pools + That are your shadowed eyes; +I should like to cleave + Without sound, +Their glimmering waters, + Their unrippled waters, +I should like to sink down + And down + And down ... + And deeply drown. + + +2. + +Would I be more than a bubble breaking? + Or an ever-widening circle + Ceasing at the marge? +Would my white bones + Be the only white bones +Wavering back and forth, back and forth + In their depths? + + +PARADOX + +When face to face we stand + And eye to eye, +How far apart we are----As +far, they say, as God can ever be +From what, they say, is Hell. + + * * * * * + +But, when we stand +Fronting the other, +Mile after mile slipping in between, +O, close we are, +As close as is the shadow to the body, +As breath, to life, ............ +As kisses are to love. + + * * * * * + + +YOUR HANDS + + I love your hands: +They are big hands, firm hands, gentle hands; +Hair grows on the back near the wrist ... +I have seen the nails broken and stained +From hard work. +And yet, when you touch me, +I grow small ....... and quiet ........ +....... And happy .......... +If I might only grow small enough +To curl up into the hollow of your palm, +Your left palm, +Curl up, lie close and cling, +So that I might know myself always there, +....... Even if you forgot. + + +I WEEP + + --I weep-- +Not as the young do noisily, +Not as the aged rustily, + But quietly. +Drop by drop the great tears +Splash upon my hands, +And save you saw them shine, + You would not know + I wept. + + +FOR THE CANDLE LIGHT + +The sky was blue, so blue that day + And each daisy white, so white, +O, I knew that no more could rains fall grey + And night again be night. + + * * * * * + +I _knew_, I _knew_. Well, if night is night, + And the grey skies greyly cry, +I have in a book for the candle light, + A daisy dead and dry. + + +DUSK + +Twin stars through my purpling pane, + The shriveling husk +Of a yellowing moon on the wane-- + And the dusk. + + +THE PUPPET PLAYER + +Sometimes it seems as though some puppet player + A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin, +Sits just beyond the border of our seeing, + Twitching the strings with slow sardonic grin. + + +A WINTER TWILIGHT + +A silence slipping around like death, +Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath; +One group of trees, lean, naked and cold, +Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold; +One path that knows where the corn flowers were; +Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir; +And over it softly leaning down, +One star that I loved ere the fields went brown. + + + + +ANNE SPENCER + + +From Lynchburg, Va., where she lives, Anne Spencer +writes, “Mother Nature, February, forty-five years ago +forced me on the stage that I, in turn, might assume the +rôle of lonely child, happy wife, perplexed mother--and, +so far, a twice resentful grandmother. I have no academic +honors, nor lodge regalia. I am a Christian by intention, +a Methodist by inheritance, and a Baptist by marriage. I +write about some of the things I love. But have no civilized +articulation for the things I hate. I proudly love +being a Negro woman--it’s so involved and interesting. +_We_ are the PROBLEM--the great national game of +TABOO.” + + +NEIGHBORS + +Ah, you are cruel; +You ask too much; +Offered a hand, a finger-tip, +You must have a soul to clutch. + + +I HAVE A FRIEND + + I have a friend +And my heart from hence +Is closed to friendship, +Nor the gods’ knees hold but one; +He watches with me thru the long night, +And when I call he comes, +Or when he calls I am there; +He does not ask me how beloved +Are my husband and children, +Nor ever do I require +Details of life and love +In the grave--his home,-- + We are such friends. + + +SUBSTITUTION + +Is Life itself but many ways of thought, +Does _thinking_ furl the poets’ pleiades, +Is in His slightest convolution wrought +These mantled worlds and their men-freighted seas? +He thinks--and being comes to ardent things: +The splendor of the day-spent sun, love’s birth,-- +Or dreams a little, while creation swings +The circle of His mind and Time’s full girth ... +As here within this noisy peopled room +My thought leans forward ... quick! you’re lifted clear +Of brick and frame to moonlit garden bloom,-- +Absurdly easy, now, our walking, dear, +Talking, my leaning close to touch your face ... +His All-Mind bids us keep this sacred place! + + +QUESTING + +Let me learn now where Beauty is; +My day is spent too far toward night +To wander aimlessly and miss her place; +To grope, eyes shut, and fingers touching space. + +Her maidens I have known, seen durance beside, +Handmaidens to the Queen, whose duty bids +Them lie and lure afield their Vestal’s acolyte, +Lest a human shake the throne, lest a god should know his might: +Nereid, daughter of the Trident, steering in her shell, +Paused in voyage, smile beguiling, tempted and I fell; +Spiteful dryads, sport forsaking, tossing birchen wreathes, +Left the Druidic priests they teased so +In the oaken trees, crying, “Ho a mortal! here a believer!” +Bound me, she who held the sceptre, stricken by her, ah, deceiver ... +But let me learn now where Beauty is; +I was born to know her mysteries, +And needing wisdom I must go in vain: +Being sworn bring to some hither land, +Leaf from her brow, light from her torchéd hand. + + +LIFE-LONG, POOR BROWNING ... + +Life-long, poor Browning never knew Virginia, +Or he’d not grieved in Florence for April sallies +Back to English gardens after Euclid’s linear: +Clipt yews, Pomander Walks, and pleachéd alleys; + +Primroses, prim indeed, in quite ordered hedges, +Waterways, soberly, sedately enchanneled, +No thin riotous blade even among the sedges, +All the wild country-side tamely impaneled ... + +Dead, now, dear Browning, lives on in heaven,-- +(Heaven’s Virginia when the year’s at its Spring) +He’s haunting the byways of wine-aired leaven +And throating the notes of the wildings on wing; + +Here canopied reaches of dogwood and hazel, +Beech tree and redbud fine-laced in vines, +Fleet clapping rills by lush fern and basil, +Drain blue hills to lowlands scented with pines ... + +Think you he meets in this tender green sweetness +Shade that was Elizabeth ... immortal completeness! + + +DUNBAR + +Ah, how poets sing and die! +Make one song and Heaven takes it; +Have one heart and Beauty breaks it; +Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I-- +Ah, how poets sing and die! + + +INNOCENCE + +She tripped and fell against a star, +A lady we all have known; +Just what the villagers lusted for +To claim her one of their own; +Fallen but once the lower felt she, +So turned her face and died,-- +With never a hounding fool to see +’Twas a star-lance in her side! + + +CREED + +If my garden oak spares one bare ledge +For a boughed mistletoe to grow and wedge; +And all the wild birds this year should know +I cherish their freedom to come and go; +If a battered worthless dog, masterless, alone, +Slinks to my heels, sure of bed and bone; +And the boy just moved in, deigns a glance-assay, +Turns his pockets inside out, calls, “Come and play!” +If I should surprise in the eyes of my friend +That the deed was _my_ favor he’d let me lend; +Or hear it repeated from a foe I despise, +That I whom he hated was chary of lies; +If a pilgrim stranger, fainting and poor, +Followed an urge and rapped at my door, +And my husband loves me till death puts apart, +Less as flesh unto flesh, more as heart unto heart: +I may challenge God when we meet That Day, +And He dare not be silent or send me away. + + +LINES TO A NASTURTIUM + +(A lover muses) + +Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa, +I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar, + Into your flaming heart; +Then did I hear crisp, crinkled laughter +As the furies after tore him apart? + A bird, next, small and humming, +Looked into your startled depths and fled.... +Surely, some dread sight, and dafter + Than human eyes as mine can see, +Set the stricken air waves drumming + In his flight. + +Day-torch, Flame-flower, cool-hot Beauty, +I cannot see, I cannot hear your flutey +Voice lure your loving swain, +But I know one other to whom you are in beauty +Born in vain: +Hair like the setting sun, +Her eyes a rising star, +Motions gracious as reeds by Babylon, bar +All your competing; +Hands like, how like, brown lilies sweet, +Cloth of gold were fair enough to touch her feet ... +Ah, how the sense floods at my repeating, +_As once in her fire-lit heart I felt the furies_ +Beating, beating. + + +AT THE CARNIVAL + +Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, +I desire a name for you, +Nice, as a right glove fits; +For you--who amid the malodorous +Mechanics of this unlovely thing, +Are darling of spirit and form. +I know you--a glance, and what you are +Sits-by-the-fire in my heart. +My Limousine-Lady knows you, or +Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark +Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile? +Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning. +The bull-necked man knows you--this first time +His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health, +And thinks not of his avocation. +I came incuriously-- +Set on no diversion save that my mind +Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds +In the presence of a blind crowd. +The color of life was gray. +Everywhere the setting seemed right +For my mood! +Here the sausage and garlic booth +Sent unholy incense skyward; +There a quivering female-thing +Gestured assignations, and lied +To call it dancing; +There, too, were games of chance +With chances for none; +But oh! the Girl-of-the-Tank, at last! +Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free +The gaze you send the crowd, +As though you know the dearth of beauty +In its sordid life. +We need you--my Limousine-Lady, +The bull-necked man, and I. +Seeing you here brave and water-clean, +Leaven for the heavy ones of earth, +I am swift to feel that what makes +The plodder glad is good; and +Whatever is good is God. +The wonder is that you are here; +I have seen the queer in queer places, +But never before a heaven-fed +Naiad of the Carnival-Tank! +Little Diver, Destiny for you, +Like as for me, is shod in silence; +Years may seep into your soul +The bacilli of the usual and the expedient; +I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day! + + + + +MARY EFFIE LEE NEWSOME + + +Born in Philadelphia January 19, 1885. Daughter of +Bishop B. F. and Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Lee. Reared in +Ohio, at Wilberforce. Married 1920, Rev. Henry Nesby +Newsome. Is a lover of the out-of-doors, and of the +beautiful. + + +MORNING LIGHT[10] + +(The Dew-Drier) + +Brother to the firefly-- +For as the firefly lights the night, +So lights he the morning-- +Bathed in the dank dews as he goes forth +Through heavy menace and mystery +Of half-waking tropic dawn, +Behold a little boy, +A naked black boy, +Sweeping aside with his slight frame +Night’s pregnant tears, +And making a morning path to the light +For the tropic traveler! + + +2 + +Bathed in the blood of battle, +Treading toward a new morning, +May not his race-- +Its body long bared to the world’s disdain, +Its face schooled to smile for a light to come-- +May not his race, even as the Dew Boy leads, +Bear onward the world to a time +When tolerance, forbearance, +Such as reigned in the heart of ONE +Whose heart was gold +Shall shape the world for that fresh dawning +After the dews of blood? + + +PANSY + +Oh, the blue blue bloom +On the velvet cheek +Of the little pansy’s face +That hides away so still and cool +In some soft garden place! +The tiger lily’s orange fires, +The red lights from the rose +Aren’t like the gloom on that blue cheek +Of the softest flower that grows! + + +SASSAFRAS TEA + +The sass’fras tea is red and clear +In my white china cup, +So pretty I keep peeping in +Before I drink it up. + +I stir it with a silver spoon, +And sometimes I just hold +A little tea inside the spoon, +Like it was lined with gold. + +It makes me hungry just to smell +The nice hot sass’fras tea, +And that’s one thing I really like +That they say’s good for me. + + +SKY PICTURES + +Sometimes a right white mountain +Or great soft polar bear, +Or lazy little flocks of sheep +Move on in the blue air. +The mountains tear themselves like floss, +The bears all melt away. +The little sheep will drift apart +In such a sudden way. +And then new sheep and mountains come. +New polar bears appear +And roll and tumble on again +Up in the skies so clear. +The polar bears would like to get +Where polar bears belong. +The mountains try so hard to stand +In one place firm and strong. +The little sheep all want to stop +And pasture in the sky, +But never can these things be done, +Although they try and try! + + +THE QUILT + +I have the greatest fun at night, +When casement windows are all bright. +I make believe each one’s a square +Of some great quilt up in the air. + +The blocks of gold have black between, +Wherever only night is seen. +It surely makes a mammoth quilt-- +With bits of dark and checks of gilt-- +To cover up the tired day +In such a cozy sort of way. + + +THE BAKER’S BOY + +The baker’s boy delivers loaves +All up and down our street. +His car is white, his clothes are white, +White to his very feet. +I wonder if he stays that way. +I don’t see how he does all day. +I’d like to watch him going home +When all the loaves are out. +His clothes must look quite different then, +At least I have no doubt. + + +WILD ROSES + +What! Roses growing in a meadow +Where all the cattle browse? +I’d think they’d fear the very shadow +Of daddy’s big rough cows. + + +QUOITS + +In wintertime I have such fun +When I play quoits with father. +I beat him almost every game. +He never seems to bother. + +He looks at mother and just smiles. +All this seems strange to me, +For when he plays with grown-up folks, +He beats them easily. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[10] (This poem, published in the CRISIS during the World War, was +written after reading an account of the little African babies who are +sent before the explorer into jungle grasses that tower many feet. The +little boys, Dan Crawford says in his THINKING BLACK, who go out to +tread down a path and by chance meet the lurking leopard or hyena are +“Human Brooms,” and are called DEW-DRIERS.) + + + + +JOHN FREDERICK MATHEUS + + +“I was born September 10, 1887, in Keyser, West Virginia. +My early education was received in Steubenville, +Ohio, my mother’s home. I was graduated from High +School in 1905. For one year thereafter I was bookkeeper +and helper in a plumbing shop. + +Proceeding to Cleveland, Ohio, I entered Adelbert College +of Western Reserve University. In 1910 I won the +A.B. degree _cum laude_ and a wife. + +I lived for a time in Philadelphia then began service +in the Florida Agricultural and Mechanical College at +Tallahassee, as teacher, first of Mathematics, then of Latin +and English. Later I became Professor of Romance +Languages. During the war and after, I served as the +college auditor and secretary. + +In 1921 I received the M.A. Degree from Columbia University +and the Teachers College Diploma as teacher of +French. In 1922 I became professor of Romance Languages +in the West Virginia Collegiate Institute, Institute, +West Virginia. + +In 1924 I traveled in Cuba; in 1925 I studied at the +University of Paris during the summer and toured Switzerland, +Italy and southern France. + +My interest in letters began early in grammar school +days. The daily papers of my home town used to print +my puerile efforts when copy ran low. + +Recently I have been the recipient of prizes and mention +in the three annual _Opportunity_ Literary Contests +and in the 1926 _Crisis_ contest, for short stories, personal +sketches, a play and poems. The 1925 _Opportunity_ prize +story ‘Fog’ is published in the _New Negro_, edited by +Alain Locke.” + + +REQUIEM + +She wears, my beloved, a rose upon her head. +Walk softly angels, lest your gentle tread +Awake her to the turmoil and the strife, +The dissonance and hates called life. + +She sleeps, my beloved, a rose upon her head. +Who says she will not hear, that she is dead? +The rose will fade and lose its lovely hue, +But not, my beloved, will fading wither you. + + + + +FENTON JOHNSON + + +“I came into the world May 7, 1888. No notice was +taken of the event save in immediate circles. I presume +the world was too busy or preoccupied to note it. It happened +in Chicago. I went to school and also college. My +scholastic record never attained me any notoriety. + +Taught school one year and repented. Having scribbled +since the age of nine, had some plays produced on the +stage of the old Pekin Theatre, Chicago, at the time I +was nineteen. When I was twenty-four my first volume +_A Little Dreaming_ was published. Since then _Visions of +the Dusk_ (1915) and _Songs of the Soil_ (1916) represent +my own collections of my work. Also published a volume +of short stories _Tales of Darkest America_ and a group +of essays on American politics _For the Highest Good_. +Work in poetry appears in the following anthologies: _The +New Poetry_ (Monroe and Henderson), _Victory_ (Braithwaite), +_Others_ (Kreymborg), _The Chicago Anthology_ +(Blanden), _Anthology of Magazine Verse_ (Braithwaite), +_Poetry by American Negroes_ (White and Jackson), _Negro +Poets and their Poetry_ (Kerlin), _Poets of America_ +(Wood), _Book of American Negro Poetry_ (J. W. Johnson), +_Today’s Poetry_ (Crawford and O’Neil) and others. + +Edited two or three magazines and published one or +two of them myself. + +My complete autobiography I promise to the world when +I am able to realize that I have done something.” + + +WHEN I DIE + +When I die my song shall be +Crooning of the summer breeze; +When I die my shroud shall be +Leaves plucked from the maple trees; +On a couch as green as moss +And a bed as soft as down, +I shall sleep and dream my dream +Of a poet’s laurel crown. + +When I die my star shall drop +Singing like a nightingale; +When I die my soul shall rise +Where the lyre-strings never fail; +In the rose my blood shall lie, +In the violet the smile, +And the moonbeams thousand strong +Past my grave each night shall file. + + +PUCK GOES TO COURT + +I went to court last night, +Before me firefly light; +And there was Lady Mab, +On cheek a cunning dab +Of rouge the sun sent down, +King Oberon with crown +Of gold eyed daisy buds +Among potato spuds +Was dancing roundelay +With Lady Chloe and May. + +I hid among the flowers +And spent the wee young hours +In mixing up the punch; +For I was on a hunch +That sober men are dull +And fairy dust will lull +To rest the plodding mind +Worn down by life’s thick grind. + +The nobles drank the brew +And called it sweetest dew; +But when I left they lay +Stunned by the light of day +And Oberon had writ +Decree that I must flit +A hundred leagues from court. +(Alas! Where is there sport?) + + +THE MARATHON RUNNER + +If I have run my course and seek the pearls +My Psyche fain would drink at Mermelon +And rest content in wine and nectar cup +Who knows but that the gods have found me whole +And in their stewardship of man would bless +The sweating lover fickle man once knew? + +I know that I might pull the tendon bands +That hold my soul together--ay, might bend +Each nerve and muscle spirit fain would keep-- +That I might hear the maddening cheers of men +Who when the morrow dawns forget the games +And cast instead the dice in market place. + +But I have found sweeter peace than fame; +And in the evening dwell on heights divine, +Betwixt my lips a rose from Cupid’s hands, +Upon my brow the laurel Belvidere +Entwines from tree beside the throne of Zeus +And flowing from my speech Athene’s words +Dipped long in wisdom’s fount to heal the soul. + + + + +JESSIE FAUSET + + +“Philadelphia where I was born and educated was once +the dear delight of my heart. But everything in my life +has contrived to pull me away from it. First I travelled +to Cornell University and came back with a Phi Beta +Kappa key and a degree of Bachelor of Arts. That +launched me. Since then I’ve seen England, Scotland, +France, Belgium, Switzerland, Italy, Austria and Algeria. +The College de France and the Alliance Francaise have +given me some points on the difference between the French +of Stratford-atte-Bowe and that of Paris. And there was +a pleasant year too at the University of Pennsylvania when +I renewed my acquaintance with Philadelphia and earned +a Master’s Degree. So much for education. As to occupations +I’ve taught Latin and French in the Dunbar High +School in Washington, D. C. And served as Literary +Editor on the _Crisis_ in New York. + +Wonderful days those! Now I’m teaching French again +in the City of New York which at present claims my love +and allegiance. Like the French I am fond of dancing, +and adore cards and the theatre probably because I am a +minister’s daughter. All my life I have wanted to write +novels and have had one published. But usually, in spite +of myself, I have scribbled poetry.... I should like to +see the West Indies, South America and Tunis and live a +long time on the French Riviera. Aside from this I have +few desires. And I find life perpetually enchanting.” + + +WORDS! WORDS! + +How did it happen that we quarreled? +We two who loved each other so! +Only the moment before we were one, +Using the language that lovers know. +And then of a sudden, a word, a phrase +That struck at the heart like a poignard’s blow. +And you went berserk, and I saw red, +And love lay between us, bleeding and dead! +Dead! When we’d loved each other so! + +How _could_ it happen that we quarreled! +Think of the things we used to say! +“What does it matter, dear, what you do? +Love such as ours has to last for aye!” +--“Try me! I long to endure your test!” +--“Love, we shall always love, come what may!” +What are the words the apostle saith? +“In the power of the tongue are Life and Death!” +Think of the things we used to say! + + +TOUCHÉ + +Dear, when we sit in that high, placid room, +“Loving” and “doving” as all lovers do, +Laughing and leaning so close in the gloom,-- + +What is the change that creeps sharp over you? +Just as you raise your fine hand to my hair, +Bringing that glance of mixed wonder and rue? + +“Black hair,” you murmur, “so lustrous and rare, +Beautiful too, like a raven’s smooth wing; +Surely no gold locks were ever more fair.” + +Why do you say every night that same thing? +Turning your mind to some old constant theme, +Half meditating and half murmuring? + +Tell me, that girl of your young manhood’s dream, +Her you loved first in that dim long ago-- +Had _she_ blue eyes? Did _her_ hair goldly gleam? + +Does _she_ come back to you softly and slow, +Stepping wraith-wise from the depths of the past? +Quickened and fired by the warmth of our glow? + +There I’ve divined it! My wit holds you fast. +Nay, no excuses; ’tis little I care. +I knew a lad in my own girlhood’s past,-- +Blue eyes he had and such waving gold hair! + + +NOBLESSE OBLIGE + +Lolotte, who attires my hair, +Lost her lover. Lolotte weeps; +Trails her hand before her eyes; +Hangs her head and mopes and sighs, +Mutters of the pangs of hell. +Fills the circumambient air +With her plaints and her despair. +Looks at me: +“May you never know, Mam’selle, +Love’s harsh cruelty.” + +Love’s dart lurks in my heart too,-- +None may know the smart +Throbbing underneath my smile. +Burning, pricking all the while +That I dance and sing and spar, +Juggling words and making quips +To hide the trembling of my lips. +I must laugh +What time I moan to moon and star +To help me stand the gaff. + +What a silly thing is pride! +Lolotte bares her heart. +Heedless that each runner reads +All her thoughts and all her needs. +What I hide with my soul’s life +Lolotte tells with tear and cry. +Blurs her pain with sob and sigh. +Happy Lolotte, she! +I must jest while sorrow’s knife +Stabs in ecstasy. + +“If I live, I shall outlive.” +Meanwhile I am barred +From expression of my pain. +Let my heart be torn in twain, +Only I may know the truth. +Happy Lolotte, blessed she +Who may tell her agony! +On me a seal is set. +Love is lost, and--bitter ruth-- +Pride is with me yet! + + +LA VIE C’EST LA VIE + +On summer afternoons I sit +Quiescent by you in the park, +And idly watch the sunbeams gild +And tint the ash-trees’ bark. + +Or else I watch the squirrels frisk +And chaffer in the grassy lane; +And all the while I mark your voice +Breaking with love and pain. + +I know a woman who would give +Her chance of heaven to take my place; +To see the love-light in your eyes, +The love-glow on your face! + +And there’s a man whose lightest word +Can set my chilly blood afire; +Fulfilment of his least behest +Defines my life’s desire. + +But he will none of me. Nor I +Of you. Nor you of her. ’Tis said +The world is full of jests like these.-- +I wish that I were dead. + + +THE RETURN + +I that had found the way so smooth +With gilly-flowers that beck and nod, +Now find that same road wild and steep +With need for compass and for rod. +And yet with feet that bleed, I pant +On blindly,--stumbling back to God! + + +RENCONTRE + +My heart that was so passionless +Leapt high last night when I saw you! +Within me surged the grief of years +And whelmed me with its endless rue. +My heart that slept so still, so spent, +Awoke last night,--to break anew! + + +FRAGMENT + +The breath of life imbued those few dim days! +Yet all we had was this,-- +A flashing smile, a touch of hands, and once +A fleeting kiss. + +Blank futile death inheres these years between! +Still naught have you and I +But frozen tears, and stifled words, and once +A sharp caught cry. + + + + +ALICE DUNBAR NELSON + + +Born Alice Ruth Moore, in New Orleans, Louisiana. +Educated in public schools and Straight College in New +Orleans. Afterwards studied at University of Pennsylvania, +Cornell University and School of Industrial Art. +Married to Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1898. Taught +school prior to marriage in New Orleans, and Brooklyn. +One of the founders of the White Rose Industrial Home +in New York, and the Industrial School for Colored Girls +in Delaware. At present teaching in Delaware. + +Published _Violets and Other Tales_, _The Goodness of +St. Rocque_, _Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence_, _The Dunbar +Speaker_, and _The Negro in Louisiana_. Contributor +to magazines and newspapers, as short story writer and +columnist. + +Married to Robert John Nelson, 1916. + + +SNOW IN OCTOBER + +Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty: +A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery +Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow, +Bending beneath a weight of early snow, +Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk, +And spread a heavy white chilly afghan +Over its crested leaves. +Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing, +Claiming the right to live another fortnight, +Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come, +Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched +Long chill fingers into the brown, streaming hair +Of fleeing October. + +The film of snow shrouded the proud redness of the tree, +As premature grief grays the strong head +Of a virile, red-haired man. + + +SONNET + +I had no thought of violets of late, +The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet +In wistful April days, when lovers mate +And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. +The thought of violets meant florists’ shops, +And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; +And garish lights, and mincing little fops +And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. +So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, +I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; +The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- +Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. +And now--unwittingly, you’ve made me dream +Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam. + + +I SIT AND SEW + +I sit and sew--a useless task it seems, +My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams-- +The panoply of war, the martial tread of men, +Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken +Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death +Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath-- +But--I must sit and sew. + +I sit and sew--my heart aches with desire-- +That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire +On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things +Once men. My soul in pity flings +Appealing cries, yearning only to go +There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe-- +But--I must sit and sew.-- + +The little useless seam, the idle patch; +Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch, +When there they lie in sodden mud and rain, +Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain? +You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream +That beckons me--this pretty futile seam, +It stifles me--God, must I sit and sew? + + + + +GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON + + +Many years ago a little yellow girl in Atlanta, Georgia, +came across a poem in a current paper that told of a rose +struggling to bloom in a window in New York City. A +child tended this flower and her whole life was wrapt up +in its fate. This poem was written by William Stanley +Braithwaite, years before the world knew how marvellous +was his mind. Some one told the reader of these lines +that the writer was colored and straightway she began to +walk upward toward him. + +This little girl grew up, went to Atlanta University, +Oberlin Conservatory, taught school, then married Henry +Lincoln Johnson, always looking forward toward the light +of the poet Braithwaite. + +Then her husband was appointed Recorder of Deeds +under Taft and she was moved by circumstances to the +capital--Washington. + +Dean Kelly Miller at Howard University saw some of +her poetic efforts and was pleased. Stanley Braithwaite +was his friend and he directed her to send something to +him at Boston. She did so, and then began a quickening +and a realization that she could do! + +Following this happy event, Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois of +the _Crisis_ brought out two poems from her pen that awakened +the interest of readers. + +At this time Jessie Fauset, the novelist, was teaching +French in Washington and very generously helped her to +gather together material for her first book _The Heart of +A Woman_ with an introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite. +This was followed by _Bronze_, a book of color with +an introduction by W. E. B. Du Bois. Her third attempt +in poetry was _An Autumn Love Cycle_ with an introduction +by Alain Locke, the editor of _The New Negro_. + +At present she is connected with the Department of +Labor at Washington, as Commissioner of Conciliation. +At her home there you may find the young writers gathered +together almost any Saturday night exchanging ideas, reciting +new poems or discussing plans for new creations. + + +SERVICE + +When we count out our gold at the end of the day, +And have filtered the dross that has cumbered the way, +Oh, what were the hold of our treasury then +Save the love we have shown to the children of men? + + +HOPE + +Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue, +The shadows are flecked by the rose sifting through, +The world has its motion, all things pass away, +No night is omnipotent, there must be day. + +The oak tarries long in the depth of the seed, +But swift is the season of nettle and weed, +Abide yet awhile in the mellowing shade, +And rise with the hour for which you were made. + +The cycle of seasons, the tidals of man +Revolve in the orb of an infinite plan, +We move to the rhythm of ages long done, +And each has his hour--to dwell in the sun! + + +THE SUPPLIANT + +Long have I beat with timid hands upon life’s leaden door, +Praying the patient, futile prayer my fathers prayed before, +Yet I remain without the close, unheeded and unheard, +And never to my listening ear is borne the waited word. + +Soft o’er the threshold of the years there comes this counsel cool: +The strong demand, contend, prevail; the beggar is a fool! + + +LITTLE SON + +The very acme of my woe, + The pivot of my pride, +My consolation, and my hope + Deferred, but not denied. +The substance of my every dream, + The riddle of my plight, +The very world epitomized + In turmoil and delight. + + +OLD BLACK MEN + +They have dreamed as young men dream + Of glory, love and power; +They have hoped as youth will hope + Of life’s sun-minted hour. + +They have seen as others saw + Their bubbles burst in air, +And they have learned to live it down + As though they did not care. + + +LETHE + +I do not ask for love, ah! no, + Nor friendship’s happiness, +These were relinquished long ago; + I search for something less. + +I seek a little tranquil bark + In which to drift at ease +Awhile, and then quite silently + To sink in quiet seas. + + +PROVING + +Were you a leper bathed in wounds + And by the world denied; +I’d share your fatal exile + As a privilege and pride. +You are to me the sun, the moon, + The starlight of my soul, +The sounding motif of my heart, + The impetus and goal! + + +I WANT TO DIE WHILE +YOU LOVE ME + +I want to die while you love me, + While yet you hold me fair, +While laughter lies upon my lips + And lights are in my hair. + +I want to die while you love me + And bear to that still bed +Your kisses turbulent, unspent + To warm me when I’m dead. + +I want to die while you love me; + Oh, who would care to live +Till love has nothing more to ask + And nothing more to give? + +I want to die while you love me, + And never, never see +The glory of this perfect day + Grow dim, or cease to be! + + +RECESSIONAL + +Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away; +Or yet a flower that has blown and shattered in a day; +For passion sleeps alas and keeps no vigil with the years +And wakens to no conjuring of orisons or tears. + +Consider me a melody that served its simple turn, +Or but the residue of fire that settles in the urn, +For love defies pure reasoning and undeterred flows +Within, without, the vassal heart--its reasoning who knows? + + +MY LITTLE DREAMS + +I’m folding up my little dreams + Within my heart tonight, +And praying I may soon forget + The torture of their sight. + +For time’s deft fingers scroll my brow + With fell relentless art-- +I’m folding up my little dreams + Tonight, within my heart. + + +WHAT NEED HAVE I FOR +MEMORY? + +What need have I for memory, + When not a single flower +Has bloomed within life’s desert + For me, one little hour? + +What need have I for memory + Whose burning eyes have met +The corse of unborn happiness + Winding the trail regret? + + +WHEN I AM DEAD + +When I am dead, withhold, I pray, your blooming legacy; +Beneath the willows did I bide, and they should cover me; +I longed for light and fragrance, and I sought them far and near, +O, it would grieve me utterly, to find them on my bier! + + +THE DREAMS OF THE DREAMER + +The dreams of the dreamer + Are life-drops that pass +The break in the heart + To the soul’s hour-glass. + +The songs of the singer + Are tones that repeat +The cry of the heart + Till it ceases to beat. + + +THE HEART OF A WOMAN + +The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, +As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, +Afar o’er life’s turrets and vales does it roam +In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. + +The heart of a woman falls back with the night, +And enters some alien cage in its plight, +And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars +While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars. + + + + +CLAUDE McKAY + + +“I was born in a very little village high up in the +hills of the parish of Clarendon in the island of Jamaica. +The village was so small it hadn’t a name like the larger +surrounding villages. But our place was called Sunny +Ville. I was the youngest of eleven. + +My father was a peasant proprietor who owned his land +and cultivated large tracts of coffee, cocoa, bananas and +sugar-cane. When I was of school age I was sent to my +brother who was a schoolmaster in a small town in the +North-Western part of the island. He educated me. He +was a free-thinker and I became one, too, so soon as I +could think about life and religion. I was never a child +of any church. My brother had a nice library with books +of all sorts and I read such free-thought writers as +Haeckel, Huxley, Matthew Arnold, side by side with +Shakespeare and the great English novelists and poets +(excepting Browning) before I was fourteen. At that +time Shakespeare to me was only a wonderful story-teller. +When I was seventeen I won a Jamaica Government Trade +Scholarship and was apprenticed to a cabinet-maker and +wheelwright. I hated trade and quit. When I was nineteen +I joined the Jamaica Constabulary and left it after +ten months. An English gentleman who was collecting +Jamaica folklore became interested in my dialect verses +and helped me to publish my first book: _Songs of Jamaica_, +in 1911. I was twenty years old then. The next year +I went to the United States. First to an educational institution +for Negroes in the South. I did not like it, and +left there after three months for a college in a Western +state. There I stayed two years. Came to New York. +Abandoned all thought of returning to the West Indies. +Lost a few thousand dollars (a legacy) in high living and +bad business. Went to work at various jobs, porter, +houseman, longshoreman, bar-man, railroad club and hotel +waiter. Kept on writing. The _Seven Arts Magazine_ took +two of my poems in 1917. In 1918 Frank Harris published +some poems in _Pearson’s_. In 1919 _The Liberator_ +published some things. The same year I went to Holland, +Belgium and England. Lived in London over a year. +Published _Spring in New Hampshire_. Returned to America +in 1921. Got a job with Max Eastman on the _Liberator_. +Kept it till Max Eastman left for Europe. Went +to Russia in 1922. _Harlem Shadows_ published 1922 by +Harcourt, Brace & Co. Stayed six months in Moscow and +Petrograd. Berlin in 1923. Paris at the end of 1923, +where I was very ill for months. Been in France ever +since trying to exist and write.” + + +AMERICA[11] + +Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, +And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth, +Stealing my breath of life, I will confess +I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! +Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, +Giving me strength erect against her hate. +Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. +Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state, +I stand within her walls with not a shred +Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. +Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, +And see her might and granite wonders there, +Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand, +Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand. + +_Claude McKay_ + + +EXHORTATION: SUMMER, 1919[12] + +Through the pregnant universe rumbles life’s terrific thunder, + And Earth’s bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break, +Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder: + Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake! + +In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, + And its golden glory fills the western skies. + O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! +For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, + Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave’s disguise, + And the foolish, even children, are made wise; +For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- + O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries, + Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes! + +Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day’s for working; + Sons of the seductive night, for your children’s children’s sake, +From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard’s lurking, + Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake! + +In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, + And its golden glory fills the western skies. + O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! +For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, + Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave’s disguise, + And the foolish, even children, are made wise; +For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- + O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries, + Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes! + + +FLAME-HEART[13] + +So much have I forgotten in ten years, + So much in ten brief years! I have forgot +What time the purple apples come to juice, + And what month brings the shy forget-me-not. +I have forgot the special, startling season + Of the pimento’s flowering and fruiting; +What time of year the ground doves brown the fields + And fill the noonday with their curious fluting. +I have forgotten much, but still remember +The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. + +I still recall the honey-fever grass, + But cannot recollect the high days when +We rooted them out of the ping-wing path + To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. +I often try to think in what sweet month + The languid painted ladies used to dapple +The yellow by-road mazing from the main, + Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. +I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember +The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. + +What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year + We cheated school to have our fling at tops? +What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy + Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? +Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days, + Even the sacred moments when we played, +All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, + At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade. +We were so happy, happy, I remember, +Beneath the poinsettia’s red in warm December. + + +THE WILD GOAT[14] + +O you would clothe me in silken frocks + And house me from the cold, +And bind with bright bands my glossy locks, + And buy me chains of gold. + +And give me--meekly to do my will-- + The hapless sons of men:-- +But the wild goat bounding on the barren hill + Droops in the grassy pen. + + +RUSSIAN CATHEDRAL + +Bow down my soul in worship very low +And in the holy silences be lost. +Bow down before the marble man of woe, +Bow down before the singing angel host. +What jewelled glory fills my spirit’s eye! +What golden grandeur moves the depths of me! +The soaring arches lift me up on high +Taking my breath with their rare symmetry. + +Bow down my soul and let the wondrous light +Of beauty bathe thee from her lofty throne, +Bow down before the wonder of man’s might. +Bow down in worship, humble and alone; +Bow lowly down before the sacred sight +Of man’s divinity alive in stone. + + +DESOLATE + +My spirit is a pestilential city, +With misery triumphant everywhere, +Glutted with baffled hopes and lost to pity; +Strange agonies make quiet lodgment there. +Its bursting sewers ooze up from below, +And spread their loathsome substance through its lanes, +Flooding all areas with their evil flow, +And blocking all the motion of its veins. +Its life is sealed to love or hope or pity; +My spirit is a pestilential city. + +Above its walls the air is heavy-wet, +Brooding in fever mood and hanging thick +Round empty tower and broken minaret, +Settling upon the tree-tops stricken sick +And withered in its dank contagious breath; +Their leaves are shrivelled silver, parched decay, +Like wilting creepers trailing underneath +The chalky yellow of a tropic way. +Round crumbling tower and leaning minaret, +The air hangs fever-filled and heavy-wet. + +And all its many fountains no more spurt; +Within the dammed-up tubes they tide and foam +Around the drifting sludge and silted dirt, +And weep against the soft and liquid loam, +And so the city’s ways are washed no more; +All is neglected and decayed within. +Clean waters beat against its high-walled shore +In furious force, but cannot enter in. +The suffocated fountains cannot spurt; +They foam and weep against the silted dirt. + +Beneath the ebon gloom of mounting rocks +The little pools lie poisonously still. +And birds come to the edge in forlorn flocks, +And utter sudden plaintive notes and shrill, +Pecking at fatty grey-green substances; +But never do they dip their bills and drink. +They twitter sad, beneath the mournful trees, +And fretfully flit to and from the brink, +In little dull brown, green-and-purple flocks, +Beneath the jet-gloom of the mounting rocks. + +And green-eyed moths of curious design, +With gold-black wings and brightly silver-dotted, +On nests of flowers among those rocks recline-- +Bold, burning blossoms, strangely leopard-spotted, +But breathing deadly poison at the lips. +Oh, every lovely moth that wanders by, +And on the blossoms fatal nectar sips, +Is doomed in drooping stupor there to die--All +green-eyed moths of curious design +That on the fiercely-burning rocks recline. + +Oh cold as death is all the loveliness +That breathes out of the strangeness of the scene, +And sickening like a skeleton’s caress, +With clammy clinging fingers, long and lean. +Above it float a host of yellow flies, +Circling in changeless motion in their place, +Snow-thick and mucid in the drooping skies, +Swarming across the glassy floor of space. +Oh cold as death is all the loveliness +And sickening like a skeleton’s caress. + +There was a time when, happy with the birds, +The little children clapped their hands and laughed; +And midst the clouds the glad winds heard their words, +And blew down all the merry ways to waft +Their music to the scented fields of flowers. +Oh sweet were children’s voices in those days, +Before the fall of pestilential showers, +That drove them forth from all the city’s ways. +Now never, never more their silver words +Will mingle with the golden of the birds. + +Gone, gone forever the familiar forms +To which my spirit once so dearly clung, +Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms, +And lost away like lovely songs unsung. +Yet life still lingers, questioningly strange, +Timid and quivering, naked and alone, +Biding the cycle of disruptive change, +Though all the fond familiar forms are gone +Forever gone, the fond familiar forms, +Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms. + + +ABSENCE[15] + +Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool, +Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool. + +Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb +Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim. + +Like soft rain-christened sunshine, as fragile as rare gold lace, +Your breath, sweet-scented and warm, has kindled my tranquil face. + +But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties +Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies. + +And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word, +To stir my fluent blood as never your presence stirred. + + +MY HOUSE + +For this peculiar tint that paints my house +Peculiar in an alien atmosphere +Where other houses wear a kindred hue, +I have a stirring always very rare +And romance-making in my ardent blood, +That channels through my body like a flood. + +I know the dark delight of being strange, +The penalty of difference in the crowd, +The loneliness of wisdom among fools, +Yet never have I felt but very proud, +Though I have suffered agonies of hell, +Of living in my own peculiar cell. + +There is an exaltation of man’s life, +His hidden life, that he alone can feel. +The blended fires that heat his veins within, +Shaping his metals into finest steel, +Are elements from his own native earth, +That the wise gods bestowed on him at birth. + +Oh each man’s mind contains an unknown realm +Walled in from other men however near, +And unimagined in their highest flights +Of comprehension or of vision clear; +A realm where he withdraws to contemplate +Infinity and his own finite state. + +Thence he may sometimes catch a god-like glimpse +Of mysteries that seem beyond life’s bar; +Thence he may hurl his little shaft at heaven +And bring down accidentally a star, +And drink its foamy dust like sparkling wine +And echo accents of the laugh divine. + +Then he may fall into a drunken sleep +And wake up in his same house painted blue +Or white or green or red or brown or black-- +His house, his own, whatever be the hue. +But things for him will not be what they seem +To average men since he has dreamt his dream! + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[11] From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by +Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. + +[12] From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by +Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. + +[13] From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by +Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. + +[14] From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by +Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. + +[15] From "Harlem Shadows" by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by +Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc. + + + + +JEAN TOOMER + + +Jean Toomer was born in Washington, D. C., in 1894. +He has since lived there and in New York, receiving his +education mainly in these cities. Having traveled over a +good part of America, experiencing varied aspects of its +life and studying the elements of contemporary problems, +in 1918 in the midst of a general interest in art, he gradually +centered on that of literature. There followed a +four year period devoted entirely to writing, the results +of which were first given printed form by _The Double +Dealer_ of New Orleans. And soon thereafter, sketches, +poems, short stories, and critical reviews began appearing +in _Broom_, _The Crisis_, _The Dial_, _The Liberator_, _The Little +Review_, _Opportunity_, etc. These brought him in contact +with a literary and artistic group in New York composed +of such men as Waldo Frank, Alfred Steiglitz, Paul Rosenfeld, +Gorham B. Munson, and others. With these he has +been associated in the effort to articulate the diverse significances +of America. In 1923 his first book, _Cane_, was +published by Boni and Liveright, New York. + + +REAPERS + +Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones +Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones +In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done, +And start their silent swinging, one by one. +Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, +And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds, +His belly close to ground. I see the blade, +Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade. + + +EVENING SONG + +Full moon rising on the waters of my heart, +Lakes and moon and fires, +Cloine tires, +Holding her lips apart. + +Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon, +Miracle made vesper-keeps, +Cloine sleeps, +And I’ll be sleeping soon. + +Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters where the moon-waves start, +Radiant, resplendently she gleams, +Cloine dreams, +Lips pressed against my heart. + + +GEORGIA DUSK + +The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue + The setting sun, too indolent to hold + A lengthened tournament for flashing gold, +Passively darkens for night’s barbecue, + +A feast of moon and men and barking hounds, + An orgy for some genius of the South + With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth, +Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds. + +The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop, + And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill, + Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill +Their early promise of bumper crop. + +Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile + Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low + Where only chips and stumps are left to show +The solid proof of former domicile. + +Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp, + Race memories of king and caravan, + High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man, +Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp. + +Their voices rise ... the pine trees are guitars, + Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain ... + Their voices rise ... the chorus of the cane +Is caroling a vesper to the stars ... + +O singers, resinous and soft your songs + Above the sacred whisper of the pines, + Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines, +Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs. + + +SONG OF THE SON + +Pour O pour that parting soul in song, +O pour it in the sawdust glow of night, +Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night, +And let the valley carry it along. +And let the valley carry it along. + +O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree, +So scant of grass, so profligate of pines, +Now just before an epoch’s sun declines, +Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee, +Thy son, I have in time returned to thee. + +In time, for though the sun is setting on +A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set; +Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet +To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone, +Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone. + +O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums, +Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air, +Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare +One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes + +An everlasting song, a singing tree, +Caroling softly souls of slavery, +What they were, and what they are to me, +Caroling softly souls of slavery. + + +COTTON SONG + +Come, brother, come. Let’s lift it; +Come now, hewit! roll away! +Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day +But let’s not wait for it. + +God’s body’s got a soul, +Bodies like to roll the soul, +Can’t blame God if we don’t roll, +Come, brother, roll, roll! + +Cotton bales are the fleecy way +Weary sinner’s bare feet trod, +Softly, softly to the throne of God, +“We ain’t agwine t’ wait until th’ Judgment Day! + +Nassur; nassur, +Hump. +Eoho, eoho, roll away! +We ain’t agwine t’ wait until th’ Judgment Day!” + +God’s body’s got a soul, +Bodies like to roll the soul, +Can’t blame God if we don’t roll, +Come, brother, roll, roll! + + +FACE + +Hair-- +silver-gray, +like streams of stars, +Brows-- +recurved canoes +quivered by the ripples blown by pain, +Her eyes--mist +of tears +condensing on the flesh below +And her channeled muscles +are cluster grapes of sorrow +purple in the evening sun +nearly ripe for worms. + + +NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER + +Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold, +Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old, +And cotton, scarce as any southern snow, +Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow, +Failed in its function as the autumn rake; +Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take +All water from the streams; dead birds were found +In wells a hundred feet below the ground-- +Such was the season when the flower bloomed. +Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed +Significance. Superstition saw +Something it had never seen before: +Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear, +Beauty so sudden for that time of year. + + + + +JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR. + + +“At Thanksgiving time 1894 Paul Laurence Dunbar, +the Negro poet, was a guest in my house in Louisville, Ky. +Here for the first time in the South he read the Negro +dialect poems that afterwards made him famous. + +September 2nd, 1895, my son, the late Joseph S. Cotter, +Jr., was born in the room in which these poems were read. +He learned to read and write from his sister, Florence +Olivia, who was two years older. Before he entered school +at the age of six years he had read about thirty books--these +included all the readers in the elementary schools--1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8th +grades and parts of the Bible. + +Mrs. Maria F. Cotter, my wife, and I held both children +back. We refused to allow them to be promoted in several +instances. Both were graduated from the Louisville Central +High School under 16; Florence Olivia won first honor +of her class and Joseph the second. He was graduated +June 1911. After a year and a half at Fisk University, +Nashville, Tenn., Florence Olivia wrote us that Joseph +had tuberculosis and must leave school. He returned home +and was put under a doctor. The 16th of the following +December, Florence Olivia returned from Fisk with tuberculosis, +and one year from that day she died. It was +grieving over his sister’s death that discovered to Joseph +his poetic talent. He died February 3rd, 1919, leaving +his published poems,--_The Band of Gideon_ and two +other unpublished works--one of poems and one of one-act +plays.” + +_Joseph S. Cotter, Sr._ + + +RAIN MUSIC + +On the dusty earth-drum + Beats the falling rain; +Now a whispered murmur, + Now a louder strain. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks. + On an ancient drum, +Beat the mellow music + Bidding life to come. + +Chords of earth awakened, + Notes of greening spring, +Rise and fall triumphant + Over every thing. + +Slender, silvery drumsticks + Beat the long tattoo-- +God, the Great Musician, + Calling life anew. + + +SUPPLICATION + +I am so tired and weary, + So tired of the endless fight, +So weary of waiting the dawn + And finding endless night. + +That I ask but rest and quiet-- + Rest for the days that are gone, +And quiet for the little space + That I must journey on. + + +AN APRIL DAY + +On such a day as this I think, + On such a day as this, +When earth and sky and nature’s whole + Are clad in April’s bliss; +And balmy zephyrs gently waft + Upon your cheek a kiss; +Sufficient is it just to live + On such a day as this. + + +THE DESERTER + +I know not why or whence he came + Or how he chanced to go; +I only know he brought me love + And going, left me woe. + +I do not ask that he turn back, + Nor seek where he may rove; +For where woe rules can never be + The dwelling place of love. + +For love went out the door of hope, + And on and on has fled; +Caring no more to dwell within + The house where faith is dead. + + +AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY? + +Brother, come! +And let us go unto our God. +And when we stand before Him +I shall say-- +“Lord, I do not hate, +I am hated. +I scourge no one, +I am scourged. +I covet no lands, +My lands are coveted. +I mock no peoples, +My people are mocked.” +And, brother, what shall you say? + + +THE BAND OF GIDEON + +The band of Gideon roam the sky, +The howling wind is their war-cry, +The thunder’s role is their trump’s peal, +And the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.” + +And men below rear temples high +And mock their God with reasons why, +And live in arrogance, sin and shame, +And rape their souls for the world’s good name. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.” + +The band of Gideon roam the sky, +And view the earth with baleful eye; +In holy wrath they scourge the land +With earth-quake, storm and burning brand. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.” + +The lightnings flash and the thunders roll, +And “Lord have mercy on my soul,” +Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod, +In agony searching for their God. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.” + +And men repent and then forget +That heavenly wrath they ever met, +The band of Gideon yet will come +And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb. + Each black cloud + Is a fiery steed. + And they cry aloud + With each strong deed, +“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.” + + + + +BLANCHE TAYLOR DICKINSON + + +I was born on a farm near Franklin, Kentucky, April +15, 1896, and received my education variously ... public +schools, Bowling Green Academy, Simmon’s University +and Summer schools. + +No degree. Taught for several years in my native +state. I am a lover of music and divide my time between +the typewriter and piano. First published in _Franklin +Favorite_, later, _Louisville Leader_, _Chicago Defender_, +_Pittsburgh Courier_, _Crisis_, _Opportunity_ and _Wayfarer_. My +favorite poets are Countee Cullen, Georgia Douglas Johnson +and Edna St. Vincent Millay; my favorite past-time, +walking along a crowded street. I have a hunch that I +shall become a short story writer and my favorite exertion +is trying to perfect my “technique.” + +At present I am living in Sewickley, Penna. + + +THE WALLS OF JERICHO + +Jericho is on the inside +Of the things the world likes best; +“We want in,” the dark ones cried, +“We will love it as the rest.” + +“Let me learn,” the dark ones say. +They have learned that Faith must do +More than meditate and pray +That a boulder may fall through +Making one large man size entrance +Into wondrous Jericho. +They have learned: forget the distance, +Count no steps, nor stop to blow. + +Jericho still has her high wall, +Futile barrier of Power.... +Echoed with the dark ones’ footfall +Marching around her every hour; +Knowledge strapped down like a knapsack +Not cumbersome, and money +Not too much to strain the back.... +Dark ones seeking milk and honey. + +Over in the city staring +Up at us along the wall +Are the fat ones, trembling, swearing +There is no room there for us all! +But there’ve been too many rounds +Made to give the trip up here. +Shout for joy ... hear how it sounds.... +The very walls echo with cheer! + + +POEM + +Ah, I know what happiness is...! +It is a timid little fawn +Creeping softly up to me +For one caress, then gone +Before I’m through with it ... +Away, like dark from dawn! +Well I know what happiness is...! +It is the break of day that wears +A shining dew decked diadem ... +An aftermath of tears. +Fawn and dawn, emblems of joy ... +I’ve played with them for years, +And always they will slip away +Into the brush of another day. + + +REVELATION + + +1 + +She walked along the crowded street +Forgetting all but that she +Was walking as the other girls +And dressed as carefully. + +The windows of the stores were frilled +To lure femininity, +To empty little pocketbooks +And assuage queen vanity. + +And so my walker liked a dress +Of silver and of gold, +Draped on a bisque mannequin +So blond and slim and bold. + +She took the precious metal home +And waved her soft black hair; +Powder, rouge and lipstick made +Her very neat and fair. + +She slipped the dress on carefully, +Her vain dream fell away.... +The mirror showed a brownskin girl +She hadn’t seen all day! + + +2 + +“You have classic features, +Something like Cleopatra. +Eyes like whirlpools +And as dangerous.... +Weeping willow eyelashes +Shade the mighty depth +Of your eyes. Your lips +Are danger signals +Which a fool like me +Will not regard.... +But go dashing past them +To gain a kiss ... or Death.” + That is what he said to me, +I filled with a sweet and vain regret +That Beauty, the stranger, and I had met. +His praise was heat to drink me dry. +So I found a stream, and with a sigh +I stooped to drink ... ah, to see +The cruel water reflecting me! +Dark-eyed, thick-lipped, harsh, short hair ... +But Lucifer saw himself, too, fair. + + +THAT HILL + +It crawled away from ’neath my feet +And left me standing there; +A little at a time, went up +An atmospheric stair. + +I couldn’t go for watching it, +To see where it would stop; +A tree sprang out and waved to me +When it had reached the top. + +The tree kept nodding friendly like, +Beckoning me to follow; +And I went crawling up and up, +Like it did from the hollow. + +Then I saw why the thing would go +A-soaring from the dell-- +’Twas nearing Heaven every bound, +And fleeing fast from Hell! + + +TO AN ICICLE + +Chilled into a serenity +As rigid as your pose +You linger trustingly, +But a gutter waits for you. +Your elegance does not secure +You favors with the sun. +He is not one to pity fragileness. +He thinks all cheeks should burn +And feel how tears can run. + + +FOUR WALLS + +Four great walls have hemmed me in. +Four strong, high walls: +Right and wrong, +Shall and shan’t. +The mighty pillars tremble when +My conscience palls +And sings its song-- +I can, I can’t. + +If for a moment Samson’s strength +Were given me I’d shove +Them away from where I stand; +Free, I know I’d love +To ramble soul and all, +And never dread to strike a wall. + +Again, I wonder would that be +Such a happy state for me ... +The going, being, doing, sham-- +And never knowing where I am. +I might not love freedom at all; +My tired wings might crave a wall-- +Four walls to rise and pen me in +This conscious world with guarded men. + + + + +FRANK HORNE + + +“Born in New York City, August 18, 1899, I have lived +all but about six years in Brooklyn. I studied at the College +of the City of New York, and was guilty there of my +first sonnet; but am ever so much more proud of my varsity +letters won on the track--once ran a “10 flat” hundred and +a 51 sec. quarter. Went to the Northern Illinois College +of Ophthalmology--took degree “Doctor of Optometry.” +Have practiced in Chicago and New York. At present +writing, am doing some teaching and publicity work at the +Fort Valley High and Industrial School, Georgia, while +recovering from a mean illness. Have had a hankering +to write as long as I can remember, but Charles Johnson, +Editor of _Opportunity_ and a certain Gwendolyn Bennett +are responsible for my trying it openly. My “published +works” are limited to the indulgence of _Opportunity_, _The +Crisis_, and _Braithwaite’s Anthology_. It is the perversity +of my nature to crave the ability to write good prose, +and yet my attempts at poetry are the only things to which +any notice is given.” + + +ON SEEING TWO BROWN BOYS IN +A CATHOLIC CHURCH + +It is fitting that you be here +Little brown boys +With Christ-like eyes +And curling hair. + +Look you on yon crucifix +Where He hangs nailed and pierced +With head hung low +And eyes a’blind with blood that drips +From a thorny crown ... +Look you well, +You shall know this thing. + +Judas’ kiss will burn your cheek +And you shall be denied +By your Peter--And +Gethsemane ... +You shall know full well +Gethsemane ... + +You, too, will suffer under Pontius Pilate +And feel the rugged cut of rough hewn cross +Upon your surging shoulder-- +They will spit in your face +And laugh ... +They will nail you up twixt thieves +And gamble for your little garments. + +And in this you will exceed God +For on this earth +You shall know Hell-- + +O little brown boys +With Christ-like eyes +And curling hair +It is fitting that you be here. + + +TO A PERSISTENT PHANTOM + +I buried you deeper last night +You with your tears +And your tangled hair +You with your lips +That kissed so fair +I buried you deeper last night. + +I buried you deeper last night +With fuller breasts +And stronger arms +With softer lips +And newer charms +I buried you deeper last night. + +Deeper ...... aye, deeper +And again tonight +Till that gay spirit +That once was you +Will tear its soul +In climbing through ... +Deeper ...... aye, deeper +I buried you deeper last night. + + +LETTERS FOUND NEAR A SUICIDE + +_To all of you_ + +My little stone +Sinks quickly +Into the bosom of this deep, dark pool +Of oblivion ... +I have troubled its breast but little +Yet those far shores +That knew me not +Will feel the fleeting, furtive kiss +Of my tiny concentric ripples.... + +_To Lewellyn_ + +You have borne full well +The burden of my friendship-- +I have drunk deep +At your crystal pool, +And in return +I have polluted its waters +With the bile of my hatred. +I have flooded your soul +With tortuous thoughts, +I have played Iscariot +To your Pythias.... + +_To Mother_ + +I came +In the blinding sweep +Of ecstatic pain, +I go +In the throbbing pulse +Of aching space-- +In the eons between +I piled upon you +Pain on pain +Ache on ache +And yet as I go +I shall know +That you will grieve +And want me back.... + +_To B----_ + +You have freed me-- +In opening wide the doors +Of flesh +You have freed me +Of the binding leash. +I have climbed the heights +Of white disaster +My body screaming +In the silver crash of passion ... +Before you gave yourself +To him +I had chained myself +For you. +But when at last +You lowered your proud flag +In surrender complete +You gave me too, as hostage-- +And I have wept my joy +At the dawn-tipped shrine +Of many breasts. + +_To Jean_ + +When you poured your love +Like molten flame +Into the throbbing mold +Of her pulsing veins +Leaving her blood a river of fire +And her arteries channels of light, +I hated you ... +Hated with that primal hate +That has its wells +In the flesh of me +And the flesh of you +And the flesh of her +I hated you-- +Hated with envy +Your mastery of her being ... +With one fleshy gesture +You pricked the iridescent bubble +Of my dreams +And so to make +Your conquest more sweet +I tell you now +That I hated you. + +_To Catalina_ + +Love thy piano, Oh girl, +It will give you back +Note for note +The harmonies of your soul. +It will sing back to you +The high songs of your heart. +It will give +As well as take.... + +_To Mariette_ + +I sought consolation +In the sorrow of your eyes. +You sought reguerdon +In the crying of my heart ... +We found that shattered dreamers +Can be bitter hosts.... + +_To_ ---- + +You call it +Death of the Spirit +And I call it Life ... +The vigor of vibration, +The muffled knocks, +The silver sheen of passion’s flood, +The ecstasy of pain ... +You call it +Death of the Spirit +And I call it Life. + +_To Telie_ + +You have made my voice +A rippling laugh +But my heart +A crying thing ... +’Tis better thus: +A fleeting kiss +And then, +The dark.... + +_To “Chick”_ + +Oh Achilles of the moleskins +And the gridiron +Do not wonder +Nor doubt that this is I +That lies so calmly here-- +This is the same exultant beast +That so joyously +Ran the ball with you +In those far flung days of abandon. +You remember how recklessly +We revelled in the heat and the dust +And the swirl of conflict? +You remember they called us +The Terrible Two? +And you remember +After we had battered our heads +And our bodies +Against the stonewall of their defense,-- +You remember the signal I would call +And how you would look at me +In faith and admiration +And say “Let’s go,” ... +How the lines would clash +And strain, +And how I would slip through +Fighting and squirming +Over the line +To victory. +You remember, Chick? ... +When you gaze at me here +Let that same light +Of faith and admiration +Shine in your eyes +For I have battered the stark stonewall +Before me ... +I have kept faith with you +And now +I have called my signal, +Found my opening +And slipped through +Fighting and squirming +Over the line +To victory.... + +_To Wanda_ + +To you, so far away +So cold and aloof, +To you, who knew me so well, +This is my last Grand Gesture +This is my last Great Effect +And as I go winging +Through the black doors of eternity +Is that thin sound I hear +Your applause?... + + +NIGGER + +A Chant for Children + +Little Black boy +Chased down the street-- +“Nigger, nigger never die +Black face an’ shiney eye, +Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....” + + Hannibal ... Hannibal + Bangin’ thru the Alps + Licked the proud Romans, + Ran home with their scalps-- + “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....” + + Othello ... black man + Mighty in war + Listened to Iago + Called his wife a whore-- + “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....” + + Crispus ... Attucks + Bullets in his chest + Red blood of freedom + Runnin’ down his vest + “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....” + + Toussant ... Toussant + Made the French flee + Fought like a demon + Set his people free-- + “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....” + + Jesus ... Jesus + Son of the Lord + --Spit in his face + --Nail him on a board + “Nigger ... nigger ... nigger ...” + +Little Black boy +Runs down the street-- +“Nigger, nigger never die +Black face an’ shiney eye, +Nigger ... nigger ... nigger ...” + + + + +LEWIS ALEXANDER + + +Lewis Alexander was born July 4, 1900, at Washington, +D. C. He was educated in the public schools of +Washington and at Howard University where he was a +member of the Howard Players. He has also studied +at the University of Pennsylvania. He was a member of +the Ethiopian Art Theatre for the season 1922-1923 playing +in _Salome_ and _The Comedy of Errors_ on Broadway. +As the result of a recent tour of North and South Carolina +he edited in May 1927 the Negro Number of the +_Carolina Magazine_. He has been writing poetry since +1917, specializing in Japanese forms. Two Little Theatre +groups in Washington, The Ira Aldridge Players of +the Grover Cleveland School and the Randall Community +Center Players have been under his direction. + + +NEGRO WOMAN + +The sky hangs heavy tonight +Like the hair of a Negro woman. +The scars of the moon are curved +Like the wrinkles on the brow of a Negro woman. + +The stars twinkle tonight +Like the glaze in a Negro woman’s eyes, +Drinking the tears set flowing by an aging hurt +Gnawing at her heart. + +The earth trembles tonight +Like the quiver of a Negro woman’s eye-lids cupping tears. + + +AFRICA + +Thou art not dead, although the spoiler’s hand +Lies heavy as death upon thee; though the wrath +Of its accursed might is in thy path +And has usurped thy children of their land; +Though yet the scourges of a monstrous band +Roam on thy ruined fields, thy trampled lanes, +Thy ravaged homes and desolated fanes; +Thou art not dead, but sleeping,--Motherland. + +A mighty country, valorous and free, +Thou shalt outlive this terror and this pain; +Shall call thy scattered children back to thee, +Strong with the memory of their brothers slain; +And rise from out thy charnel house to be +Thine own immortal, brilliant self again! + + +TRANSFORMATION + +I return the bitterness, + Which you gave to me; +When I wanted loveliness + Tantalant and free. + +I return the bitterness + It is washed by tears; +Now it is a loveliness + Garnished through the years. + +I return it loveliness, + Having made it so; +For I wore the bitterness + From it long ago. + + +THE DARK BROTHER + +“Lo, I am black but I am comely too, +Black as the night, black as the deep dark caves. +I am the scion of a race of slaves +Who helped to build a nation strong that you +And I may stand within the world’s full view, +Fearless and firm as dreadnoughts on rough waves; +Holding a banner high whose floating braves +The opposition of the tried untrue. + +Casting an eye of love upon my face, +Seeing a newer light within my eyes, +A rarer beauty in your brother race +Will merge upon your visioning fullwise. +Though I am black my heart through love is pure, +And you through love my blackness shall endure!” + + +TANKA I-VIII + + +I + +Could I but retrace +The winding stairs fate built me. +They fell from my feet. +Now I stand on the high round. +Down beneath height above depth-- + + +II + +Through the eyes of life +I looked in at my own heart: +A long furrowed field +Grown cement waiting for seed +Baking in desolation. + + +III + +Drink in moods of joy! +Why should the sky be lonely? +Neither sun nor moon-- +How my heart is shy of night +Like Autumn’s leaf brown pendants. + + +IV + +Cold against the sky +The blue jays cried at dawning. +The larks where are they? +Heavily upon the air +My ears tuned in to listen. + + +V + +So this is the reed? +The very pipes for singing-- +Life plays me new songs. +Wistfully from out the dawn +The crows broke across the sky! + + +VI + +And now Spring has come +Blossoming up my garden. +I alone unchanged. +Moving in my house of Autumn. +One leaf alone saves a tree. + + +VII + +By the pool of life +Willows are drooping tonight +I can see no stars. +What dances in the water? +O my clouds dripping with tears. + + +VIII + +Could I hear your voice +O but this silence is sweet +Words mar all beauty. +Turn then into your own heart +And pluck the roots from the soil-- + + +JAPANESE HOKKU + +O apple blossoms +Give me your words of silence, +Yes, your charming speech. + + * * * * * + +If you would know me, +Do not regard this display; +Mingle with my speech. + + * * * * * + +Why sit like the sphinx, +Watching the caravan pass? +Join in the parade. + + * * * * * + +What if the wind blows? +What if the leaves are scattered, +Now that they are dead? + + * * * * * + +While trimming the plants +I saw some flowers drooping. +I am a flower. + + * * * * * + +This is but my robe, +His Majesty gave to me. +Garments will decay. + + * * * * * + +On the flowering twig, +Lo! the robin is singing. +It must be spring. + + * * * * * + +Looking up the hill +The road was long before me. +This road is longer. + + * * * * * + +Death is not cruel +From what I have seen of life; +Nothing else remains. + + * * * * * + +Life is history. +Turn not away from the book. +Write on every page! + + * * * * * + +If you had not sung +Then what would I imitate, +Happy nightingale? + + * * * * * + +Sitting by the pool, +I looked in and saw my face. +O that I were blind! + + +DAY AND NIGHT + +The day is a Negro + Yelling out of breath. +The night is a Negro + Laughing up to death. + +The day is a jazz band + Blasting loud and wild. +The night is a jazz band + Moaning Blues songs, child. + +The day is the sunshine + Undressed in the street. +The night is the sunshine + Dressed from head to feet. + +I am like a rainbow + Arched across the way. +Yes, I am a rainbow + Being night nor day. + + + + +STERLING A. BROWN + + +I was born in Washington, D. C., the first of May, +1901. I received primary and secondary education in the +Public Schools of that city, and on a farm near Laurel, +Md.; entered Williams College in 1918, was elected to +Phi Beta Kappa in 1921, graduated in 1922; and received +my Master of Arts Degree at Harvard in 1923. Since that +time I have been seeking a more liberal education teaching +school. I have been inflicted on unsuspecting, helpless +students; teaching diverse things at Manassas Summer +School in Virginia, Rhetoric and Literature at Virginia +Seminary and College, Lynchburg, Va., and Literature +at Lincoln University, Jefferson City, Mo. + +From early years I have _lisped in numbers_ but the +numbers seem improper fractions. I have always been interested +in people, particularly and generally, and in +books. The list runs from Homer to Housman. + +Except for an essay on Roland Hayes submitted to an +_Opportunity_ contest, and occasional poems and reviews, +I have published nothing of the voluminous works cluttering +my desk. + + +ODYSSEY OF BIG BOY + +Lemme be wid Casey Jones, + Lemme be wid Stagolee, +Lemme be wid such like men + When Death takes hol’ on me, + When Death takes hol’ on me.... + +Done skinned as a boy in Kentucky hills, + Druv steel dere as a man, +Done stripped tobacco in Virginia fiels’ + Alongst de River Dan, + Alongst de River Dan; + +Done mined de coal in West Virginia + Liked dat job jes’ fine +Till a load o’ slate curved roun’ my head + Won’t work in no mo’ mine, + Won’t work in no mo’ mine; + +Done shocked de corn in Marylan, + In Georgia done cut cane, +Done planted rice in South Caline, + But won’t do dat again + Do dat no mo’ again. + +Been roustabout in Memphis, + Dockhand in Baltimore, +Done smashed up freight on Norfolk wharves + A fust class stevedore, + A fust class stevedore.... + +Done slung hash yonder in de North + On de ole Fall River Line +Done busted suds in li’l New Yawk + Which ain’t no work o’ mine-- + Lawd, ain’t no work o’ mine; + +Done worked and loafed on such like jobs + Seen what dey is to see +Done had my time with a pint on my hip + An’ a sweet gal on my knee + Sweet mommer on my knee: + +Had stovepipe blonde in Macon + Yaller gal in Marylan +In Richmond had a choklit brown + Called me huh monkey man-- + Huh big fool monkey man. + +Had two fair browns in Arkansaw + And three in Tennessee +Had Creole gal in New Orleans + Sho Gawd did two time me-- + Lawd two time, fo’ time me-- + +But best gal what I evah had + Done put it over dem +A gal in Southwest Washington + At Four’n half and M-- + Four’n half and M.... + +Done took my livin’ as it came + Done grabbed my joy, done risked my life +Train done caught me on de trestle + Man done caught me wid his wife + His doggone purty wife ... + +I done had my women, + I done had my fun +Cain’t do much complainin’ + When my jag is done, + Lawd, Lawd, my jag is done. + +An’ all dat Big Boy axes + When time comes fo’ to go +Lemme be wid John Henry, steel drivin’ man + Lemme be wid ole Jazzbo; + Lemme be wid ole Jazzbo.... + + +MAUMEE RUTH + +Might as well bury her + And bury her deep, +Might as well put her + Where she can sleep. + +Might as well lay her + Out in her shiny black; +And for the love of God + Not wish her back. + +Maum Sal may miss her + Maum Sal, she only +With no one now to scoff + Sal may be lonely.... + +Nobody else there is + Who will be caring +How rocky was the road + For her wayfaring; + +Nobody be heeding in + Cabin, or town +That she is lying here + In her best gown. + +Boy that she suckled + How should he know +Hiding in city holes + Sniffing the ‘snow’? + +And how should the news + Pierce Harlem’s din +To reach her baby gal, + Sodden with gin? + +To cut her withered heart + They cannot come again, +Preach her the lies about + Jordan and then + +Might as well drop her + Deep in the ground +Might as well pray for her + That she sleep sound.... + + +LONG GONE + +I laks yo’ kin’ of lovin’ + Ain’t never caught you wrong +But it jes ain’ nachal + Fo’ to stay here long; + +It jes ain’ nachal + Fo’ a railroad man +With a itch fo’ travellin’ + He cain’t understan’.... + +I looks at de rails + An’ I looks at de ties, +An I hears an ole freight + Puffin’ up de rise, + +An’ at nights on my pallet + When all is still +I listens fo’ de empties + Bumpin’ up de hill; + +When I oughta be quiet + I is got a itch +Fo’ to hear de whistle blow + Fo’ de crossin’, or de switch, + +An’ I knows de time’s a nearin’ + When I got to ride +Though its homelike and happy + At yo’ side. + +You is done all you could do + To make me stay +Tain’t no fault of yours I’se leavin’-- + I’se jes dataway. + +I is got to see some people + I ain’ never seen +Gotta highball thu some country + Whah I never been.... + +I don’t know which way I’m travellin’-- + Far or near, +All I knows fo’ certain is + I cain’t stay here. + +Ain’t no call at all, sweet woman + Fo’ to carry on,-- +Jes my name and jes my habit + To be Long Gone.... + + +TO A CERTAIN LADY, IN HER +GARDEN + +(_A. S._) + +Lady, my lady, come from out the garden, +Clayfingered, dirtysmocked, and in my time +I too shall learn the quietness of Arden, +Knowledge so long a stranger to my rhyme. + +What were more fitting than your springtime task? +Here, close engirdled by your vines and flowers +Surely there is no other grace to ask, +No better cloister from the bickering hours. + +A step beyond, the dingy streets begin +With all their farce, and silly tragedy--But +here, unmindful of the futile din +You grow your flowers, far wiser certainly, + +You and your garden sum the same to me, +A sense of strange and momentary pleasure, +And beauty snatched--oh, fragmentarily +Perhaps, yet who can boast of other seizure? + +Oh, you have somehow robbed, I know not how +The secret of the loveliness of these +Whom you have served so long. Oh, shameless, now +You flaunt the winnings of your thieveries. + +Thus, I exclaim against you, profiteer.... +For purpled evenings spent in pleasing toil, +Should you have gained so easily the dear +Capricious largesse of the miser soil? + +Colorful living in a world grown dull, +Quiet sufficiency in weakling days, +Delicate happiness, more beautiful +For lighting up belittered, grimy ways-- + +Surely I think I shall remember this, +You in your old, rough dress, bedaubed with clay, +Your smudgy face parading happiness, +Life’s puzzle solved. Perhaps, in turn, you may. + +One time, while clipping bushes, tending vines, +(Making your brave, sly mock at dastard days,) +Laugh gently at these trivial, truthful lines-- +And that will be sufficient for my praise. + + +SALUTAMUS + +(O Gentlemen the time of Life is short--Henry IV) + +The bitterness of days like these we know; +Much, much we know, yet cannot understand +What was our crime that such a searing brand +Not of our choosing, keeps us hated so. +Despair and disappointment only grow, +Whatever seeds are planted from our hand, +What though some roads wind through a gladsome land? +It is a gloomy path that we must go. + +And yet we know relief will come some day +For these seared breasts; and lads as brave again +Will plant and find a fairer crop than ours. +It must be due our hearts, our minds, our powers; +These are the beacons to blaze out the way. +_We must plunge onward; onward, gentlemen_.... + + +CHALLENGE + +I said, in drunken pride of youth and you +That mischief-making Time would never dare +Play his ill-humoured tricks upon us two, +Strange and defiant lovers that we were. +I said that even Death, Highwayman Death, +Could never master lovers such as we, +That even when his clutch had throttled breath, +My hymns would float in praise, undauntedly. + +I did not think such words were bravado. +Oh, I think honestly we knew no fear, +Of Time or Death. We loved each other so. +And thus, with you believing me, I made +My prophecies, rebellious, unafraid.... +And that was foolish, wasn’t it, my dear? + + +RETURN + +I have gone back in boyish wonderment +To things that I had foolishly put by.... +Have found an alien and unknown content +In seeing how some bits of cloud-filled sky +Are framed in bracken pools; through chuckling hours +Have watched the antic frogs, or curiously +Have numbered all the unnamed, vagrant flowers, +That fleck the unkempt meadows, lavishly. + +Or where a headlong toppling stream has stayed +Its racing, lulled to quiet by the song +Bursting from out the thickleaved oaken shade, +There I have lain while hours sauntered past-- +I have found peacefulness somewhere at last, +Have found a quiet needed for so long. + + + + +CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY + + +“I was born at Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, in the +Twentieth Century, and spent my early years in what is +known as the ‘Black Belt.’ This was followed by seven +years in New England (1916-1923), three at Bradford +Academy, and four at Wellesley College, where my +southern blood became tinged with something of the austerity +of that section. Three years of teaching in the +Dunbar High School of Washington, D. C., convinced me +that though the children were interesting, teaching was +not my _metier_. In the fall of 1926 I was married. Since +completing a study of Delinquency and Neglect among +Negro children in New York City, my career has been +that of a wife, and as careers go, that is an interesting +and absorbing one.” + + +JOY + +Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail, +Like the roistering wind +That laughs through stalwart pines. +It floods me like the sun +On rain-drenched trees +That flash with silver and green. + +I abandon myself to joy-- +I laugh--I sing. +Too long have I walked a desolate way, +Too long stumbled down a maze +Bewildered. + + +SOLACE + +My window opens out into the trees +And in that small space +Of branches and of sky +I see the seasons pass +Behold the tender green +Give way to darker heavier leaves. +The glory of the autumn comes +When steeped in mellow sunlight +The fragile, golden leaves +Against a clear blue sky +Linger in the magic of the afternoon +And then reluctantly break off +And filter down to pave +A street with gold. +Then bare, gray branches +Lift themselves against the +Cold December sky +Sometimes weaving a web +Across the rose and dusk of late sunset +Sometimes against a frail new moon +And one bright star riding +A sky of that dark, living blue +Which comes before the heaviness +Of night descends, or the stars +Have powdered the heavens. +Winds beat against these trees; +The cold, but gentle rain of spring +Touches them lightly +The summer torrents strive +To lash them into a fury +And seek to break them-- +But they stand. +My life is fevered +And a restlessness at times +An agony--again a vague +And baffling discontent +Possesses me. +I am thankful for my bit of sky +And trees, and for the shifting +Pageant of the seasons. +Such beauty lays upon the heart +A quiet. +Such eternal change and permanence +Take meaning from all turmoil +And leave serenity +Which knows no pain. + + +INTERIM + +The night was made for rest and sleep, +For winds that softly sigh; +It was not made for grief and tears; +So then why do I cry? + +The wind that blows through leafy trees +Is soft and warm and sweet; +For me the night is a gracious cloak +To hide my soul’s defeat. + +Just one dark hour of shaken depths, +Of bitter black despair-- +Another day will find me brave, +And not afraid to dare. + + +THE MASK + +So detached and cool she is +No motion e’er betrays +The secret life within her soul, +The anguish of her days. + +She seems to look upon the world +With cold ironic eyes, +To spurn emotion’s fevered sway, +To scoff at tears and sighs. + +But once a woman with a child +Passed by her on the street, +And once she heard from casual lips +A man’s name, bitter-sweet. + +Such baffled yearning in her eyes, +Such pain upon her face! +I turned aside until the mask +Was slipped once more in place. + + + + +LANGSTON HUGHES + + +Langston Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, on the +first of February, 1902. His mother was a school teacher, +his father a lawyer. During most of his childhood he +lived with his grandmother in Lawrence, Kansas, where +he went to school. This old lady, Mary Sampson Patterson +Leary Langston, was the last surviving widow of +John Brown’s Raid, her first husband having been one +of the five colored men to die so gloriously at Harper’s +Ferry. She had then married Charles Langston, brother +of the Negro senator, John M. Langston, and in the seventies +they came to Kansas where the mother of the poet +was born. + +When Langston Hughes was thirteen this grandmother +died and the boy went to live with his mother in Lincoln, +Illinois. A year later they moved to Cleveland where he +attended and was graduated from the Central High School. +Then followed fifteen months in Mexico where his father +had been located for some years. Here the young man +learned Spanish, taught English, and attended bull-fights. +Here, too, he wrote “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” his +first poem to be published in the magazines. + +In 1921 he went to New York for a year at Columbia +University. A break with his father followed and he +secured work for the summer on a truck farm on Staten +Island. Then for almost two years he travelled as a +member of the crew of freight steamers voyaging to the +West Coast of Africa and Northern Europe. In February, +1924, he went to Paris. When he arrived he had seven +dollars in his pockets; so he soon found a job as doorman +in a Montmartre cabaret. Later he became second cook +and pan-cake maker at the Grand Duc, a Negro night +club where Buddy Gilmore sometimes played and Florence +sang. That summer he went to Italy, and September +found him stranded in Genoa. He worked his way back +to New York on a tramp steamer, painting and scrubbing +decks. + +A year in Washington followed where he worked in the +office of the Association for the Study of Negro Life and +History, and later as a bus boy at the Wardman Park +Hotel. There Vachel Lindsay read some of his poems and +he was discovered by the newspapers. Then his first +book, _The Weary Blues_, appeared. He has now resumed +his formal education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, +which he says is a place of beauty and the ideal +college for a poet. His second book of poems, _Fine Clothes +for the Jew_, is a study in racial rhythms. + +Lincoln University +April 13, 1927 + + +I, TOO[16] + +I, too, sing America. + + +I am the darker brother. +They send me to eat in the kitchen +When company comes, +But I laugh, +And eat well, +And grow strong. + +Tomorrow, +I’ll sit at the table +When company comes. +Nobody’ll dare +Say to me, +“Eat in the kitchen,” +Then. + +Besides, +They’ll see how beautiful I am +And be ashamed,-- + +I, too, am America. + + +PRAYER[17] + +I ask you this: +Which way to go? +I ask you this: +Which sin to bear? +Which crown to put +Upon my hair? +I do not know, +Lord God, +I do not know. + + +SONG FOR A DARK GIRL[18] + +Way down South in Dixie + (Break the heart of me) +They hung my black young lover + To a cross roads tree. + +Way down South in Dixie + (Bruised body high in air) +I asked the white Lord Jesus + What was the use of prayer. + +Way down South in Dixie + (Break the heart of me) +Love is a naked shadow + On a gnarled and naked tree. + + +HOMESICK BLUES[19] + +De railroad bridge’s +A sad song in de air. +De railroad bridge’s +A sad song in de air. +Ever time de trains pass +I wants to go somewhere. + +I went down to de station. +Ma heart was in ma mouth. +Went down to de station. +Heart was in ma mouth. +Lookin’ for a box car +To roll me to de South. + +Homesick blues, Lawd, +’S a terrible thing to have. +Homesick blues is +A terrible thing to have. +To keep from cryin’ +I opens ma mouth an’ laughs. + + +FANTASY IN PURPLE[20] + +Beat the drums of tragedy for me. +Beat the drums of tragedy and death. +And let the choir sing a stormy song +To drown the rattle of my dying breath. + +Beat the drums of tragedy for me, +And let the white violins whir thin and slow, +But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun +To go with me + to the darkness + where I go. + + +DREAM VARIATION[21] + +To fling my arms wide +In some place of the sun, +To whirl and to dance +Till the white day is done. +Then rest at cool evening +Beneath a tall tree +While night comes on gently, + Dark like me,-- +That is my dream! + +To fling my arms wide +In the face of the sun, +Dance! whirl! whirl! +Till the quick day is done. +Rest at pale evening.... +A tall, slim tree.... +Night coming tenderly + Black like me. + + +THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF +RIVERS[22] + +I’ve known rivers: +I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than + the flow of human blood in human veins. + +My soul has grown deep like the rivers. + +I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. +I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. +I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. +I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln + went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy + bosom turn all golden in the sunset. + +I’ve known rivers: +Ancient, dusky rivers. + +My soul has grown deep like the rivers. + + +POEM[23] + +The night is beautiful, +So the faces of my people. + +The stars are beautiful, +So the eyes of my people. + +Beautiful, also, is the sun. +Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people. + + +SUICIDE’S NOTE[24] + +The calm, +Cool face of the river +Asked me for a kiss. + + +MOTHER TO SON[25] + +Well, son, I’ll tell you: +Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. +It’s had tacks in it, +And splinters, +And boards torn up, +And places with no carpet on the floor-- +Bare. +But all the time +I’s been a-climbin’ on, +And reachin’ landin’s, +And turnin’ corners, +And sometimes goin’ in the dark +Where there ain’t been no light. +So boy, don’t you turn back. +Don’t you set down on the steps +’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. +Don’t you fall now-- +For I’s still goin’, honey, +I’s still climbin’, +And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. + + +A HOUSE IN TAOS + + _Rain_ +Thunder of the Rain God: + And we three + Smitten by beauty. + +Thunder of the Rain God: + And we three + Weary, weary. + +Thunder of the Rain God: + And you, she and I + Waiting for nothingness. + +Do you understand the stillness + Of this house in Taos +Under the thunder of the Rain God? + + _Sun_ +That there should be a barren garden +About his house in Taos +Is not so strange, +But that there should be three barren hearts +In this one house in Taos,-- +Who carries ugly things to show the sun? + + _Moon_ +Did you ask for the beaten brass of the moon? +We can buy lovely things with money, +You, she and I, +Yet you seek, +As though you could keep, +This unbought loveliness of moon. + + _Wind_ +Touch our bodies, wind. +Our bodies are separate, individual things. +Touch our bodies, wind, +But blow quickly +Through the red, white, yellow skins +Of our bodies +To the terrible snarl, +Not mine, +Not yours, +Not hers, +But all one snarl of souls. +Blow quickly, wind, +Before we run back into the windlessness,-- +With our bodies,-- +Into the windlessness +Of our house in Taos. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[16] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[17] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf. +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[18] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[19] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[20] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[21] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[22] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[23] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[24] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + +[25] By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, +Inc., authorized publishers. + + + + +GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT + + +Gwendolyn B. Bennett was born in Giddings, Texas, +on July 8th, 1902. Her father was a lawyer and her mother +was a school teacher. She received her elementary training +in the Public Schools of Washington, D. C., and Harrisburg, +Pa. She was graduated from the Girls’ High +School in Brooklyn, New York, during January, 1921. +While she was in attendance there she was a member of +the Felter Literary Society and the Girls’ High School +Dramatic Society, being the first Negro girl to have been +elected to either of these societies. In an open contest +she was awarded the first prize for a poster bearing the +slogan _Fresh Air Prevents Tuberculosis_. + +She matriculated in the Fine Arts Department of +Teachers’ College, Columbia University, where she remained +for two years. She then entered the Normal Art +Course at Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York. She was +the author of her class play each of the two years she +was there. In her Junior Year she played the leading +part in the play which she had herself written. She was +graduated from Pratt Institute June 1924. + +She then became a member of the Howard University +Faculty in Fine Arts as Instructor in Design, Water-color +and Crafts. During the Christmas holidays of the school +year 1924-25 Miss Bennett was awarded the Thousand +Dollar Foreign Scholarship by the Alpha Sigma Chapter +of the Delta Sigma Theta Sorority at its Annual Convention +held in New York City. + +She sailed for Cherbourg, France on June fifteenth, +1925. While in Paris she studied at the Académie Julian, +The Académie Coloraossi and the École de Pantheon. +Through the influence of Konrad Bercovici she was thrown +in contact with the artist, Frans Masereel, one of France’s +best known modern painters. M. and Mme. Masereel +offered Miss Bennett the hospitality of their home and +together with their circle of friends did much to encourage +her in her work while in Paris. She returned to America +during June 1926. + +For the summer of 1926 she was employed at the _Opportunity_ +magazine where she acted in the capacity of +Assistant to the Editor. September 1926 she returned +to Howard University where she resumed her classroom +work after a year’s leave of absence. + + +QUATRAINS + + +1 + +Brushes and paints are all I have +To speak the music in my soul-- +While silently there laughs at me +A copper jar beside a pale green bowl. + + +2 + +How strange that grass should sing-- +Grass is so still a thing.... +And strange the swift surprise of snow +So soft it falls and slow. + + +SECRET + +I shall make a song like your hair ... +Gold-woven with shadows green-tinged, +And I shall play with my song +As my fingers might play with your hair. +Deep in my heart +I shall play with my song of you, +_Gently_.... +I shall laugh +At its sensitive lustre ... +I shall wrap my song in a blanket, +Blue like your eyes are blue +With tiny shots of silver. +I shall wrap it caressingly, +_Tenderly_.... +I shall sing a lullaby +To the song I have made +Of your hair and eyes ... +And you will never know +That deep in my heart +I shelter a song of you +_Secretly_.... + + +ADVICE + +You were a sophist, +Pale and quite remote, +As you bade me +Write poems-- +Brown poems +Of dark words +And prehistoric rhythms ... +Your pallor stifled my poesy +But I remembered a tapestry +That I would some day weave +Of dim purples and fine reds +And blues +Like night and death-- +The keen precision of your words +Wove a silver thread +Through the dusk softness +Of my dream-stuff.... + + +TO A DARK GIRL + +I love you for your brownness +And the rounded darkness of your breast. +I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice +And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest. + +Something of old forgotten queens +Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk +And something of the shackled slave +Sobs in the rhythm of your talk. + +Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow’s mate, +Keep all you have of queenliness, +Forgetting that you once were slave, +And let your full lips laugh at Fate! + + +YOUR SONGS + +When first you sang a song to me +With laughter shining from your eyes, +You trolled your music liltingly +With cadences of glad surprise. + +In after years I heard you croon +In measures delicately slow +Of trees turned silver by the moon +And nocturnes sprites and lovers know. + +And now I cannot hear you sing, +But love still holds your melody +For silence is a sounding thing +To one who listens hungrily. + + +FANTASY + +I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night +Where you were the dusk-eyed queen, +And there in the pallor of moon-veiled light +The loveliest things were seen ... + +A slim-necked peacock sauntered there +In a garden of lavender hues, +And you were strange with your purple hair +As you sat in your amethyst chair +With your feet in your hyacinth shoes. + +Oh, the moon gave a bluish light +Through the trees in the land of dreams and night. +I stood behind a bush of yellow-green +And whistled a song to the dark-haired queen ... + + +LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE +OF ALEXANDER DUMAS + +Cemeteries are places for departed souls +And bones interred, +Or hearts with shattered loves. +A woman with lips made warm for laughter +Would find grey stones and roving spirits +Too chill for living, moving pulses ... +And thou, great spirit, wouldst shiver in thy granite shroud +Should idle mirth or empty talk +Disturb thy tranquil sleeping. + +A cemetery is a place for shattered loves +And broken hearts.... +Bowed before the crystal chalice of thy soul, +I find the multi-colored fragrance of thy mind +Has lost itself in Death’s transparency. + +Oh, stir the lucid waters of thy sleep +And coin for me a tale +Of happy loves and gems and joyous limbs +And hearts where love is sweet! + +A cemetery is a place for broken hearts +And silent thought ... +And silence never moves, +Nor speaks nor sings. + + +HATRED + +I shall hate you +Like a dart of singing steel +Shot through still air +At even-tide. +Or solemnly +As pines are sober +When they stand etched +Against the sky. +Hating you shall be a game +Played with cool hands +And slim fingers. +Your heart will yearn +For the lonely splendor +Of the pine tree; +While rekindled fires +In my eyes +Shall wound you like swift arrows. +Memory will lay its hands +Upon your breast +And you will understand +My hatred. + + +SONNET + +1 + +He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black-- +A lover come from legends long ago--With +silver spurs and silken plumes a-blow, +And flashing sword caught fast and buckled back +In a carven sheath of Tamarack. +He came with footsteps beautifully slow, +And spoke in voice meticulously low. +He came and Romance followed in his track.... + +I did not ask his name--I thought him Love; +I did not care to see his hidden face. +All life seemed born in my intaken breath; +All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove. +He bent to kiss and raised his visor’s lace ... +All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death. + + +SONNET + +2 + +Some things are very dear to me-- +Such things as flowers bathed by rain +Or patterns traced upon the sea +Or crocuses where snow has lain ... +The iridescence of a gem, +The moon’s cool opalescent light, +Azaleas and the scent of them, +And honeysuckles in the night. +And many sounds are also dear-- +Like winds that sing among the trees +Or crickets calling from the weir +Or Negroes humming melodies. +But dearer far than all surmise +Are sudden tear-drops in your eyes. + + + + +ARNA BONTEMPS + + +Arna Bontemps explains that he was just tall enough +to see above window sills when the first trolley car came +down Lee Street in Alexandria, La. His mother, Marie +Pembroke, had been born in this same town but his father +had come out of Marksville, a smaller town of that +state. Though exceedingly young and very frail, Marie +Pembroke had taught school until her marriage, while her +husband, Paul Bontemps, was a brick mason, the son and +grandson of brick masons. + +With Arna Bontemps in his third year and a second +child, a girl, just past one, the family left the South for +San Francisco. However, they stopped in Los Angeles +to visit relatives and have never moved further. Here the +boy’s mother died some nine years later and here his +father is still living. Here also he received his early education +in a rather irregular attendance of a number of +schools. He went through the schools rapidly enough and +in spite of being out several years received a college degree +in his twentieth year. + +In the year following that he lost his illusions with +reference to a musical career and returned to an original +intention to eat bread by the sweat of teaching school. +It is to be remembered that he went to college first with the +purpose of taking a medical course but it took him only +a day or two to decide better. + +He lives in New York City and is now twenty-four and +married. + + +THE RETURN + + +I + +Once more, listening to the wind and rain, +Once more, you and I, and above the hurting sound +Of these comes back the throbbing of remembered rain, +Treasured rain falling on dark ground. +Once more, huddling birds upon the leaves +And summer trembling on a withered vine. +And once more, returning out of pain, +The friendly ghost that was your love and mine. + + +II + +Darkness brings the jungle to our room: +The throb of rain is the throb of muffled drums. +Darkness hangs our room with pendulums +Of vine and in the gathering gloom +Our walls recede into a denseness of +Surrounding trees. This is a night of love +Retained from those lost nights our fathers slept +In huts; this is a night that must not die. +Let us keep the dance of rain our fathers kept +And tread our dreams beneath the jungle sky. + + +III + +And now the downpour ceases. +Let us go back once more upon the glimmering leaves +And as the throbbing of the drums increases +Shake the grass and dripping boughs of trees. +A dry wind stirs the palm; the old tree grieves. + +_Time has charged the years: the old days have returned._ + +Let us dance by metal waters burned +With gold of moon, let us dance +With naked feet beneath the young spice trees. +What was that light, that radiance +On your face?--something I saw when first +You passed beneath the jungle tapestries? + +A moment we pause to quench our thirst +Kneeling at the water’s edge, the gleam +Upon your face is plain: you have wanted this. +Let us go back and search the tangled dream +And as the muffled drum-beats throb and miss +Remember again how early darkness comes +To dreams and silence to the drums. + + +IV + +Let us go back into the dusk again, +Slow and sad-like following the track +Of blowing leaves and cool white rain +Into the old gray dream, let us go back. +Our walls close about us we lie and listen +To the noise of the street, the storm and the driven birds. +A question shapes your lips, your eyes glisten +Retaining tears, but there are no more words. + + +A BLACK MAN TALKS OF +REAPING + +I have sown beside all waters in my day. +I planted deep, within my heart the fear +That wind or fowl would take the grain away. +I planted safe against this stark, lean year. + +I scattered seed enough to plant the land +In rows from Canada to Mexico +But for my reaping only what the hand +Can hold at once is all that I can show. + +Yet what I sowed and what the orchard yields +My brother’s sons are gathering stalk and root, +Small wonder then my children glean in fields +They have not sown, and feed on bitter fruit. + + +TO A YOUNG GIRL LEAVING THE +HILL COUNTRY + +The hills are wroth; the stones have scored you bitterly +Because you looked upon the naked sun +Oblivious of them, because you did not see +The trees you touched or mountains that you walked upon. + +But there will come a day of darkness in the land, +A day wherein remembered sun alone comes through +To mark the hills; then perhaps you’ll understand +Just how it was you drew from them and they from you. + +For there will be a bent old woman in that day +Who, feeling something of this country in her bones, +Will leave her house tapping with a stick, who will (they say) +Come back to seek the girl she was in these familiar stones. + + +NOCTURNE AT BETHESDA + +I thought I saw an angel flying low, +I thought I saw the flicker of a wing +Above the mulberry trees; but not again. +Bethesda sleeps. This ancient pool that healed +A host of bearded Jews does not awake. +This pool that once the angels troubled does not move. +No angel stirs it now, no Saviour comes +With healing in His hands to raise the sick +And bid the lame man leap upon the ground. + +The golden days are gone. Why do we wait +So long upon the marble steps, blood +Falling from our open wounds? and why +Do our black faces search the empty sky? +Is there something we have forgotten? some precious thing +We have lost, wandering in strange lands? + +There was a day, I remember now, +I beat my breast and cried, “Wash me God, +Wash me with a wave of wind upon +The barley; O quiet One, draw near, draw near! +Walk upon the hills with lovely feet +And in the waterfall stand and speak. + +“Dip white hands in the lily pool and mourn +Upon the harps still hanging in the trees +Near Babylon along the river’s edge, +But oh, remember me, I pray, before +The summer goes and rose leaves lose their red.” + +The old terror takes my heart, the fear +Of quiet waters and of faint twilights. +There will be better days when I am gone +And healing pools where I cannot be healed. +Fragrant stars will gleam forever and ever +Above the place where I lie desolate. + +Yet I hope, still I long to live. +And if there can be returning after death +I shall come back. But it will not be here; +If you want me you must search for me +Beneath the palms of Africa. Or if +I am not there then you may call to me +Across the shining dunes, perhaps I shall +Be following a desert caravan. + +I may pass through centuries of death +With quiet eyes, but I’ll remember still +A jungle tree with burning scarlet birds. +There is something I have forgotten, some precious thing. +I shall be seeking ornaments of ivory, +I shall be dying for a jungle fruit. + + You do not hear, Bethesda. +O still green water in a stagnant pool! +Love abandoned you and me alike. +There was a day you held a rich full moon +Upon your heart and listened to the words +Of men now dead and saw the angels fly. +There is a simple story on your face; +Years have wrinkled you. I know, Bethesda! +You are sad. It is the same with me. + + +LENGTH OF MOON + +Then the golden hour +Will tick its last +And the flame will go down in the flower. + +A briefer length of moon +Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune. + +Then we may think of this, yet +There will be something forgotten +And something we should forget. + +It will be like all things we know: +The stone will fail; a rose is sure to go. + +It will be quiet then and we may stay +As long at the picket gate +But there will be less to say. + + +LANCELOT + +The fruit of the orchard is over-ripe, Elaine, +And leaves are crisping on the garden wall. +Leaves on the garden path are wet and rain +Drips from the low shrubs with a steady fall. + +It is long, so long since I was here, Elaine, +Moles have gnawed the rose tree at its root; +You did not think that I would come again, +Least of all in the day of falling fruit. + + +GETHSEMANE + +All that night I walked alone and wept. +I tore a rose and dropped it on the ground. +My heart was lead; all that night I kept +Listening to hear a dreadful sound. + +A tree bent down and dew dripped from its hair. +The earth was warm; dawn came solemnly. +I stretched full-length upon the grass and there +I said your name but silence answered me. + + +A TREE DESIGN + +A tree is more than a shadow +Blurred against the sky, +More than ink spilled on the fringe +Of white clouds floating by. +A tree is more than an April design +Or a blighted winter bough +Where love and music used to be. +A tree is something in me, +Very still and lonely now. + + +BLIGHT + +I have seen a lovely thing +Stark before a whip of weather: +The tree that was so wistful after spring +Beating barren twigs together. + +The birds that came there one by one, +The sensuous leaves that used to sway +And whisper there at night, all are gone, +Each has vanished in its way. + +And this whip is on my heart; +There is no sound that it allows, +No little song that I may start +But I hear the beating of dead boughs. + + +THE DAY-BREAKERS + +We are not come to wage a strife + With swords upon this hill. +It is not wise to waste the life + Against a stubborn will. +Yet would we die as some have done: +Beating a way for the rising sun. + + +CLOSE YOUR EYES! + +Go through the gates with closed eyes. +Stand erect and let your black face front the west. +Drop the axe and leave the timber where it lies; +A woodman on the hill must have his rest. + +Go where leaves are lying brown and wet. +Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you, +And every face you ever loved forget. +Close your eyes; walk bravely through. + + +GOD GIVE TO MEN + +God give the yellow man +An easy breeze at blossom time. +Grant his eager, slanting eyes to cover +Every land and dream +Of afterwhile. + +Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs +To whirl in tall buildings. +Allow them many ships at sea, +And on land, soldiers +And policemen. + +For black man, God, +No need to bother more +But only fill afresh his meed +Of laughter, +His cup of tears. + +God suffer little men +The taste of soul’s desire. + + +HOMING + +Sweet timber land +Where soft winds blow +The high green tree +And fan away the fog! +Ah fragrant stream +Where thirsty creatures go +And strong black men +Hew the heavy log! + +Oh broken house +Crumbling there alone, +Wanting me! +Oh silent tree +Must I always be +A wild bird +Riding the wind +And screaming bitterly? + + +GOLGOTHA IS A MOUNTAIN + +Golgotha is a mountain, a purple mound +Almost out of sight. +One night they hanged two thieves there, +And another man. +Some women wept heavily that night; +Their tears are flowing still. They have made a river; +Once it covered me. +Then the people went away and left Golgotha +Deserted. +Oh, I’ve seen many mountains: +Pale purple mountains melting in the evening mists and blurring on the + borders of the sky. +I climbed old Shasta and chilled my hands in its summer snows. +I rested in the shadow of Popocatepetl and it whispered to me of daring + prowess. +I looked upon the Pyrenees and felt the zest of warm exotic nights. +I slept at the foot of Fujiyama and dreamed of legend and of death. +And I’ve seen other mountains rising from the wistful moors like the + breasts of a slender maiden. +Who knows the mystery of mountains! +Some of them are awful, others are just lonely. + + * * * * * + +Italy has its Rome and California has San Francisco, +All covered with mountains. +Some think these mountains grew +Like ant hills +Or sand dunes. +That might be so-- +I wonder what started them all! +Babylon is a mountain +And so is Ninevah, +With grass growing on them; +Palaces and hanging gardens started them. +I wonder what is under the hills +In Mexico +And Japan! +There are mountains in Africa too. +Treasure is buried there: +Gold and precious stones +And moulded glory. +Lush grass is growing there +Sinking before the wind. +Black men are bowing. +Naked in that grass +Digging with their fingers. +I am one of them: +Those mountains should be ours. +It would be great +To touch the pieces of glory with our hands. +These mute unhappy hills, +Bowed down with broken backs, +Speak often one to another: +“A day is as a year,” they cry, +“And a thousand years as one day.” +We watched the caravan +That bore our queen to the courts of Solomon; +And when the first slave traders came +We bowed our heads. +“Oh, Brothers, it is not long! +Dust shall yet devour the stones +But we shall be here when they are gone.” +Mountains are rising all around me. +Some are so small they are not seen; +Others are large. +All of them get big in time and people forget +What started them at first. +Oh the world is covered with mountains! +Beneath each one there is something buried: +Some pile of wreckage that started it there. +Mountains are lonely and some are awful. + + * * * * * + +One day I will crumble. +They’ll cover my heap with dirt and that will make a mountain. +I think it will be Golgotha. + + + + +ALBERT RICE + + +I am a native of our Capital City, born in the Mauve +Decade (1903). My schooling has been in the Washington +grammar and high schools. It was while a student at +Dunbar High School that I felt a restless urge to write +something other than dull formal paragraphs in English. +I made several attempts at verse but found them so poor +that I hastily put such ideas behind me. + +After leaving high school I entered the government service +in Washington, but my radical views could not become +reconciled to the conservative bourgeoise ideals +around me; so I left the government service and journeyed +to New York in the winter of 1926. Here I served an +apprenticeship in literary vagabondage with the bizarre +and eccentric young vagabond poet of High Harlem, +Richard Bruce. It was here that I felt inspired to write +“The Black Madonna.” I was one evening at vespers +down at St. Mary’s the Virgin, and while lost in contemplation +before Our Lady, I thought of a Madonna of +swart skin, a Madonna of dark mien. + +Despite my radicalism I am religious. I admire the +socialist form of government, and my favorite poet is +Claude McKay. And some day I hope to flee the shores +of this exquisite hell. My temperament is Latin. I abhor +all things Anglo-Saxon. I’d rather live in the squalor +of Mulberry Street, N. Y. (Little Italy) than at Irvington-on-the-Hudson. +I love bull fights and dislike baseball +games. I like dancing and dislike prayer meetings. I +love New York because it is crowded and noisy and an +outpost of Europe. Of my home here in Washington I +have not much to offer. I like Washington because it +has such a large share of Babbitts, both white and black. +And I like it because Georgia Douglas Johnson lives there +and on Saturday nights has an assembly of likable and +civilized people, and because it was from this Saturday +night circle that Jean Toomer, Richard Bruce, and Richard +Goodwin, the artist, went forth to fame and infamy. + + +THE BLACK MADONNA + +Not as the white nations + know thee + O Mother! + +But swarthy of cheek + and full-lipped as the + child races are. + +Yet thou art she, + the Immaculate Maid, + and none other, + +Crowned in the stable + at Bethlehem, + hailed of the star. + +See where they come, + thy people, + so humbly appealing, + +From the ancient lands + where the olden faiths + had birth. + +Tired dusky hands + uplifted for thy + healing. + +Pity them, Mother, + the untaught + of earth. + + + + +COUNTEE CULLEN + + +Born in New York City, May 30, 1903, and reared in +the conservative atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage, +Countee Cullen’s chief problem has been that of reconciling +a Christian upbringing with a pagan inclination. +His life so far has not convinced him that the problem is +insoluble. Educated in the elementary and high schools +of New York City, with an A.B. degree and a Phi Beta +Kappa Key from New York University, an M.A. from +Harvard, arrantly opposed to any form of enforced racial +segregation, he finds it a matter of growing regret that +no part of his academic education has been drawn from +a racial school. As a poet he is a rank conservative, loving +the measured line and the skillful rhyme; but not blind +to the virtues of those poets who will not be circumscribed; +and he is thankful indeed for the knowledge that should +he ever desire to go adventuring, the world is rife with +paths to choose from. He has said, perhaps with a reiteration +sickening to some of his friends, that he wishes any +merit that may be in his work to flow from it solely as the +expression of a poet--with no racial consideration to bolster +it up. He is still of the same thought. At present he +is employed as Assistant Editor of _Opportunity, A Journal +of Negro Life_. + +His published works are _Color_, _The Ballad of the Brown +Girl_, and _Copper Sun_. + + +LINES TO OUR ELDERS + +You too listless to examine +If in pestilence or famine +Death lurk least, a hungry gamin +Gnawing on you like a beaver +On a root, while you trifle +Time away nodding in the sun, +Careless how the shadows crawl +Surely up your crumbling wall, +Heedless of the Thief’s footfall, +Death’s, whose nimble fingers rifle +Your heartbeats one by weary one,-- +Here’s the difference in our dying: +You go dawdling, we go flying. +Here’s a thought flung out to plague you: +Ours the pleasure if we’d liever +Burn completely with the fever +Than go ambling with the ague. + + +I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH +LIFE + +(With apologies to the memory of Alan Seeger) + +I have a rendezvous with Life +In days I hope will come +Ere youth has sped and strength of mind, +Ere voices sweet grown dumb; +I have a rendezvous with Life +When Spring’s first heralds hum. +It may be I shall greet her soon, +Shall riot at her behest; +It may be I shall seek in vain +The peace of her downy breast; +Yet I would keep this rendezvous, +And deem all hardships sweet, +If at the end of the long white way, +There Life and I shall meet. +Sure some will cry it better far +To crown their days in sleep, +Than face the wind, the road, and rain, +To heed the falling deep; +Though wet, nor blow, nor space I fear, +Yet fear I deeply, too, +Lest Death shall greet and claim me ere +I keep Life’s rendezvous. + + +PROTEST + +I long not now, a little while at least, +For that serene interminable hour +When I shall leave this barmecidal feast, +With poppy for my everlasting flower. +I long not now for that dim cubicle +Of earth to which my lease will not expire, +Where he who comes a tenant there may dwell +Without a thought of famine, flood, or fire. + +Surely that house has quiet to bestow: +Still tongue, spent pulse, heart pumped of its last throb, +The fingers tense and tranquil in a row, +The throat unwelled with any sigh or sob. +But time to live, to love, bear pain and smile, +Oh, we are given such a little while! + + +YET DO I MARVEL + +I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, +And did he stoop to quibble could tell why +The little buried mole continues blind, +Why flesh that mirrors him must some day die, +Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus +Is baited with the fickle fruit, declare +If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus +To struggle up a never-ending stair. + +Inscrutable His ways are and immune +To catechism by a mind too strewn +With petty cares to slightly understand +What awful brain compels His awful hand; +Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: +To make a poet black, and bid him sing! + + +TO LOVERS OF EARTH: FAIR +WARNING + +Give over to high things the fervent thought +You waste on Earth; let down the righteous bar +Against a wayward peace too dearly bought +Upon this pale and passion-frozen star. +Sweethearts and friends, are they not loyal? Far +More fickle, false, perverse, far more unkind, +Is Earth to those who give her heart and mind. + +And you whose lusty youth her snares intrigue, +Who glory in her seas, swear by her clouds, +With Age, man’s foe, Earth ever is in league. +Time resurrects her even while he crowds +Your bloom to dust, and lengthens out your shrouds +A day’s length or a year’s. She will be young +When your last cracked and quivering note is sung. + +She will remain the Earth, sufficient still +Though you are gone, and with you that rare loss +That vanishes with your bewildered will; +And there shall flame no red, indignant cross +For you, no quick white scar of wrath emboss +The sky, no blood drip from a wounded moon, +And not a single star chime out of tune. + + +FROM THE DARK TOWER + +We shall not always plant while others reap +The golden increment of bursting fruit, +Not always countenance, abject and mute, +That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap; +Not everlastingly while others sleep +Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute, +Not always bend to some more subtle brute; +We were not made eternally to weep. + +The night whose sable breast relieves the stark +White stars is no less lovely, being dark; +And there are buds that cannot bloom at all +In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall; +So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds, +And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds. + + +TO JOHN KEATS, POET, AT +SPRINGTIME + +I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; +There never was a spring like this; +It is an echo, that repeats +My last year’s song and next year’s bliss. +I know, in spite of all men say +Of Beauty, you have felt her most. +Yea, even in your grave her way +Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost, +Spring never was so fair and dear +As Beauty makes her seem this year. + +I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; +I am as helpless in the toil +Of Spring as any lamb that bleats +To feel the solid earth recoil +Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats +Her tocsin call to those who love her, +And lo! the dogwood petals cover +Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek +White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover +About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek, +While white and purple lilacs muster +A strength that bears them to a cluster +Of color and odor; for her sake +All things that slept are now awake. + +And you and I, shall we lie still, +John Keats, while Beauty summons us? +Somehow I feel your sensitive will +Is pulsing up some tremulous +Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves +Grow music as they grow, since your +Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves +For life that opens death’s dark door. +Though dust, your fingers still can push +The Vision Splendid to a birth, +Though now they work as grass in the hush +Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth. + +“John Keats is dead,” they say, but I +Who hear your full insistent cry +In bud and blossom, leaf and tree, +Know John Keats still writes poetry. +And while my head is earthward bowed +To read new life sprung from your shroud, +Folks seeing me must think it strange +That merely spring should so derange +My mind. They do not know that you, +John Keats, keep revel with me, too. + + +FOUR EPITAPHS + + +1 + +_For My Grandmother_ + +This lovely flower fell to seed; +Work gently sun and rain; +She held it as her dying creed +That she would grow again. + + +2 + +_For John Keats, Apostle of Beauty_ + +Not writ in water nor in mist, +Sweet lyric throat, thy name. +Thy singing lips that cold death kissed +Have seared his own with flame. + + +3 + +_For Paul Laurence Dunbar_ + +Born of the sorrowful of heart +Mirth was a crown upon his head; +Pride kept his twisted lips apart +In jest, to hide a heart that bled. + + +4 + +_For a Lady I Know_ + +She even thinks that up in heaven + Her class lies late and snores, +While poor black cherubs rise at seven + To do celestial chores. + + +INCIDENT + +Once riding in old Baltimore, + Heart-filled, head-filled with glee, +I saw a Baltimorean + Keep looking straight at me. + +Now I was eight and very small, + And he was no whit bigger, +And so I smiled, but he poked out + His tongue and called me, “Nigger.” + +I saw the whole of Baltimore + From May until December: +Of all the things that happened there + That’s all that I remember. + + + + +DONALD JEFFREY HAYES + + +Donald Jeffrey Hayes was born November 16, 1904, in +Raleigh, N. C. At the age of five his parents brought him +to Atlantic City, N. J., where he attended the public +schools through the freshman year of High School. In +1913 he moved with his family to Pleasantville, N. J., +where in his sophomore year of High School he was +awarded, after a near student strike, court action and the +dismissal of a member of the faculty--the highest debating +honors. Following this unpleasantness, he went to Chicago +where he studied privately the forms of poetry while completing +his High School work. He graduated in 1926 from +Englewood an honor student, and distinguished, as it were, +as “The poet of Englewood” and “The Bronze God” as his +fellow students dubbed him. + +He is at present planning a volume of his verse and +studying the voice, planning to make his career in the +concert field. + + +INSCRIPTION + +He wrote upon his heart +As on the door of some dark ancient house: +Who once lived here has long been dead +As dead as moss-grown stone +Only a ghost inhabits here +One that would be alone +Only a ghost inhabits here +A ghost without desire +Who sits before a shadowed hearth +And warms to a spectral fire.... + + +AUF WIEDERSEHEN + +I shall come this way again + On some distant morrow +When the red and golden leaves + Have fallen on my sorrow...! + +I shall come this way again + When this day is rotten +In the grave of yesterdays + And this hour forgotten...! + +I shall come this way again + Before the lamp light dies +To comfort you and dry the tear + Of penance from your eyes...! + + +NIGHT + +Night like purple flakes of snow +Falls with ease +Catching on the roofs of houses +In the tops of trees +Down upon the distant grass +And the distant flower +It will drift into this room +In an hour.... + + +CONFESSION + +She kneeled before me begging + That I should with a prayer +Give her absolution + (How golden was her hair!) + +She begged an absolution + While the moments fled +She thought my tears were pity + (My soul her lips were red!) + +She begged of me forgiveness + God you understand +(For pale and soft and slender + Was her dainty hand!) + +She begged that I should pray You + That her Soul might rest +But I could not pray O Master + (Ivory was her breast!) + + +NOCTURNE + +Softly blow lightly +O twilight breeze +Scarcely bend slightly +O silver trees: +Night glides slowly down hill ... down stream +Bringing a myriad star-twinkling dream.... +Softly blow lightly +O twilight breeze +Scarcely bend slightly +O silver trees: +Night will spill sleep in your day weary eye +While a soft yellow moon steals down the sky.... +Softly blow +Scarcely bend +So ...! +Lullaby.... + + +AFTER ALL + +After all and after all +When the song is sung +And swallowed up in silence +It were more real unsung.... + +After all and after all +When the lips have stirred +Such a little of the thought +Is transmuted in the word.... + +Suffer not my ears with hearing +Suffer not your thoughts with speech. +Let us feel into our meaning +And thus know the all of each. + + + + +JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS + + +I was born on a farm twelve miles southwest of Lexington, +Mississippi, in 1904. When I was eleven years +old our family was disunited by divorce. My three sisters +and only brother went with father while I chose to become +my mother’s “little ploughman.” We worked around on +“half shares” in the community of my birth until I was +fourteen, and then my mother, who had managed somehow +to save enough money to keep me in school for four +months, sent me to Jackson College. It was here that I +received my first material recognition for writing when +I was awarded the first prize in a local contest for my +first story, entitled “The Bible In The Cotton Field.” +Mother’s plan was to send me back to Jackson College +again the following year, but the white landlord took her +entire crop of four bales to cover the land rent of my +uncle with whom we had gone to live in Humphreys +County that year. + +My formal education has been interrupted more than +once by periods of farming and teaching. I moved up +my years and taught two five-months sessions in Humphreys +County before I finished my high school work. In +the fall of 1923 I matriculated at Lincoln University, +Missouri, and graduated from its high school department +in June 1925 with salutatory honors. Lincoln was very +kind to me during those two years--the happiest I have +known in all my life. It gave me work enough to cover +my expenses while attending there, twice chose me the +president of my class, and bestowed upon me each of the +three first prizes it offers in the high school department, +besides electing me class poet and giving me a host of +staunch friends. + +I am now pursuing my college work at Tougaloo College +and am part time pastor of the second Baptist Church +of Kosciusko, Mississippi. + + +THE RESURRECTION + +His friends went off and left Him dead +In Joseph’s subterranean bed, +Embalmed with myrrh and sweet aloes, +And wrapped in snow-white burial clothes. + +Then shrewd men came and set a seal +Upon His grave, lest thieves should steal +His lifeless form away, and claim +For Him an undeserving fame. + +“There is no use,” the soldiers said, +“Of standing sentries by the dead.” +Wherefore, they drew their cloaks around +Themselves, and fell upon the ground, +And slept like dead men, all night through, +In the pale moonlight and chilling dew. + +A muffled whiff of sudden breath +Ruffled the passive air of death. + +He woke, and raised Himself in bed; + Recalled how He was crucified; +Touched both hands’ fingers to His head, + And lightly felt His fresh-healed side. + +Then with a deep, triumphant sigh, +He coolly put His grave-clothes by-- +Folded the sweet, white winding sheet, + The toweling, the linen bands, + The napkin, all with careful hands-- +And left the borrowed chamber neat. + +His steps were like the breaking day: + So soft across the watch He stole, + He did not wake a single soul, +Nor spill one dewdrop by the way. + +Now Calvary was loveliness: + Lilies that flowered thereupon +Pulled off the white moon’s pallid dress, + And put the morning’s vesture on. + +“Why seek the living among the dead? +He is not here,” the angel said. + +The early winds took up the words, +And bore them to the lilting birds, +The leafing trees, and everything +That breathed the living breath of spring. + + +THE LAST QUARTER MOON OF +THE DYING YEAR + +The last quarter moon of the dying year, +Pendant behind a naked cottonwood tree +On a frosty, dawning morning +With the back of her silver head +Turned to the waking sun. +Quiet like the waters +Of Galilee +After the Lord had bid them +“Peace, be still.” +O silent beauty, indescribable! + +Dead, do they say? +Would God that I shall seem +So beautiful in death. + + +PAEAN + +Across the dewy lawn she treads + Before the sun awakes +While lush, green grasses bow their heads + To kiss the tracks she makes. + +The violets, in clusters, stand + And stare her beauty through, +And seem so happy in her hand, + They know not what to do. + +She must have come whence zephyrs blow, + From sprites’ or angels’ lands; +Her heart is meet for God to know-- + Oh, heaven is where she stands! + + + + +GLADYS MAY CASELY HAYFORD + + +“I was born at Axim on the African Gold Coast in 1904 +on the 11th of May to singularly cultured and intellectual +parents, my mother being one of the daughters of Judge +Smith, the first Judge of the Excomission Court of Sierra +Leone, and my father being one of the three pioneer lawyers +of the Gold Coast. + +I am a Fanti, of the Fanti tribe which spreads from +Axim right down the Gold Coast, to Acera, and is subdivided +into groups speaking different dialects. It is said +that the Acera branch, at one time, wandered away from +the main body and eventually arrived also at the sea coast, +speaking another tongue, but retaining the same customs. + +I spent five years in England, three of which were spent +in school. I went to Penrohs College, Colwyn Bay in +Wales, and on my return home became a school teacher +in The Girls Vocational School, Sierra Leone. + +By twenty, I had the firm conviction that I was meant +to write for Africa. This was accentuated by the help +which our boys and girls need so much and fired by the +determination to show those who are prejudiced against +colour, that we deny inferiority to them, spiritually, intellectually +and morally; and to prove it. + +I argued that the first thing to do, was to imbue our +own people with the idea of their own beauty, superiority +and individuality, with a love and admiration for our own +country, which has been systematically suppressed. Consequently +I studied the beautiful points of Negro physique, +texture of skin, beauty of hair, soft sweetness of +eyes, charm of curves, so that none should think it a +shame to be black, but rather a glorious adventure.” + + +NATIVITY + +Within a native hut, ere stirred the dawn, +Unto the Pure One was an Infant born +Wrapped in blue lappah that his mother dyed. +Laid on his father’s home-tanned deer-skin hide +The babe still slept by all things glorified. +Spirits of black bards burst their bonds and sang, +“Peace upon earth” until the heavens rang. +All the black babies who from earth had fled, +Peeped through the clouds, then gathered round His head. +Telling of things a baby needs to do, +When first he opens his eyes on wonders new; +Telling Him that to sleep was sweeter rest, +All comfort came from His black mother’s breast. +Their gifts were of Love caught from the springing sod, +Whilst tears and laughter were the gifts of God. +Then all the wise men of the past stood forth +Filling the air East, West, and South and North; +And told him of the joys that wisdom brings +To mortals in their earthly wanderings. +The children of the past shook down each bough, +Wreathed Frangepani blossoms for His brow; +They put pink lilies in His mother’s hand, +And heaped for both the first fruits of the land. +His father cut some palm fronds that the air +Be coaxed to zephyrs while He rested there. +Birds trilled their hallelujahs; and the dew +Trembled with laughter till the babe laughed too. +All the black women brought their love so wise, +And kissed their motherhood into his mother’s eyes. + +Note: lappah--a straight woven cloth tied round the waist to form a +skirt. + +Frangepani--An African flower. + + +RAINY SEASON LOVE SONG + +Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes; +Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums +My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain, +As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain. + +“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere, +Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair; +Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they + rise, +I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your + eyes.” + +Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire +Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire; +“The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much, +That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch. +When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers + apart, +I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.” + +The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note +As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat; +“The thunder’s in love with you darling. It hides its power in your breast. +And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest. +I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl, +Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.” + +Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night, +Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light. +Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes. +Is there peace within like the peace without? Only the darkness knows. + + +THE SERVING GIRL + +The calabash wherein she served my food, +Was smooth and polished as sandalwood: +Fish, as white as the foam of the sea, +Peppered, and golden fried for me. +She brought palm wine that carelessly slips +From the sleeping palm tree’s honeyed lips. +But who can guess, or even surmise +The countless things she served with her eyes? + + +BABY COBINA + +BROWN BABY COBINA, with his large black velvet eyes, +His little coos of ecstacies, his gurgling of surprise, +With brass bells on his ankles, that laugh where’er he goes, +It’s so rare for bells to tinkle, above brown dimpled toes. + +BROWN BABY COBINA is so precious that we fear +Something might come and steal him, when we grownups are not near; +So we tied bells on his ankles, and kissed on them this charm-- +“Bells, guard our Baby Cobina from all devils and all harm.” + + + + +LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS + + +Lucy Ariel Williams was born in Mobile, Alabama, +March 3, 1905. Her parents, Dr. and Mrs. H. Roger +Williams surrounded her with the aesthetic and cultural +environment usually given the only daughters in professional +homes in the South. Miss Williams is well known +as a modiste, poet and extremely talented pianist. Her +early training was acquired at Emerson Institute, Mobile, +Alabama. Later she was graduated from Talladega College +and Fisk University, after which she attended Oberlin +Conservatory of Music, Oberlin, Ohio. Although a +first year student there, she received third year classification, +being the first member of her race to be so honored. +Her work has appeared in _Opportunity_ and other journals. +Her poem “Northboun’” received first prize in the _Opportunity_ +contest for 1926. + + +NORTHBOUN’ + +O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat, +An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’, +H’it’s one long strip +Hangin’ up an’ down-- +Jes’ Souf an’ Norf; +Jes’ Norf an’ Souf. + +Talkin’ ’bout sailin’ ’round de wurl’-- +Huh! I’d be so dizzy my head ’ud twurl. +If dis heah earf wuz jes’ a ball +You no the people all ’ud fall. + +O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat, +An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’, +H’it’s one long strip +Hangin’ up an’ down-- +Jes’ Souf an’ Norf; +Jes’ Norf an’ Souf. + +Talkin’ ’bout the City whut Saint John saw-- +Chile you oughta go to Saginaw; +A nigger’s chance is “finest kind,” +An’ pretty gals ain’t hard to find. + +Huh! de wurl’ ain’t flat, +An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’, +Jes’ one long strip +Hangin’ up an’ down. +Since Norf is up, +An’ Souf is down, +An’ Hebben is up, +I’m upward boun’. + + + + +GEORGE LEONARD ALLEN + + +I was born in Lumberton, North Carolina, September +10, 1905. My parents, Professor and Mrs. D. P. Allen, +were then in charge of Whitin Normal School, a thriving +secondary school which was discontinued at my father’s +death some ten years ago. + +My high school days were spent at Redstone Academy, +located at Lumberton. I can think of nothing of interest +to mention concerning this period, except that I was an +omnivorous reader, and learned to love literature, and +especially poetry, with a passionate intensity. + +Four years of college at Johnson C. Smith University +followed, during which time I studied a little, read a great +deal, and dabbled in music and literature. Among other +things, I experimented with the piano enough to become +a fairly advanced performer. + +It was during my stay at college that my longing to +become a writer grew particularly ardent. A good many +of my literary attempts saw the light in school and local +periodicals, some bringing encouraging comment. In June +of 1926, I was graduated, having been chosen as valedictorian +for that year. + +I feel it necessary to mention here that my college +career was made possible mainly through the sacrifices of +my noble and devoted mother. + +In the past winter I was engaged in teaching at Kendall +Institute in Sumter, S. C. During this time some of my +work appeared in _Opportunity_, _American Life_, _The Southwestern +Christian Advocate_, and _The Lyric West_. + +This year one of my poems, “To Melody,” was awarded +the prize for the best sonnet in a state-wide contest conducted +by the United Daughters of the Confederacy +(North Carolina Division). + + +TO MELODY + +I think that man hath made no beauteous thing +More lovely than a glorious melody +That soars aloft in splendor, full and free, +And graceful as a swallow on the wing! +A melody that seems to move, and sing, +And quiver, in its radiant ecstasy, +That bends and rises like a slender tree +Which sways before the gentle winds of Spring! + +Ah, men will ever love thee, holy art! +For thou, of all the blessings God hath given, +Canst best revive and cheer the wounded heart +And nearest bring the weary soul to Heaven! +Of all God’s precious gifts, it seems to me, +The choicest is the gift of melody. + + +PORTRAIT + +Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade, + Like sylvan lakes that lie +In some sequestered forest glade + Beneath a starry sky. + +Her cheeks? The ripened chestnut’s hue,-- + Rich autumn’s sun-kissed brown! +Caressed by sunbeams dancing through + Red leaves that flutter down. + +Her form? A slender pine that sways + Before the murmuring breeze +In summer, when the south wind plays + Soft music through the trees. + +Herself? A laughing, joyous sprite + Who smiles from dawn till dark, +As lovely as a summer night + And carefree as a lark. + + + + +RICHARD BRUCE + + +I was born in Washington, D. C., on the second of July, +1906, and have never ceased to marvel at the fact. After +attending public school with very good marks (I was +thrashed if I did not lead my class), I attended Dunbar +High School of the same city. When I was thirteen my +father died, my greatest impression being the crowded +church and the vault. Mother left Washington for New +York where my brother and I joined her in a few months. +New York was an adventure and still is. A glorious +something torn from a novel. Even the first hard winter +with mother ill and my feet on the ground was just a part +of it. My gathering bits of fur to paste on newspaper to +cut out for inner soles for my shoes, the walking to work +to save carfare, and getting lunch as best I could, all +seemed romantic and highly colored. Weren’t there theatres +and lights, Broadway, Fifth Avenue ... and lights? +Noise and bustle and high silk hats and flowers in pots +in the Bowery. Hobble cars creeping like caterpillars up +Broadway. Taxis and people and forty-second street. +Traffic towers and tall buildings. Wasn’t this New York? +A year later I discovered Harlem. I was at that time +an art apprentice at seven fifty a week. But that was too +little money. So I became in turn errand boy for ten +dollars, bell hop in an all-women’s hotel for eleven fifty-five, +eighteen with tips, secretary and confidence man for +a modiste for twenty-five, ornamental iron-worker and +designer for twenty-eight, and elevator operator for thirty. +Then I had the mumps and despite the glamor of New +York, I wanted to go, just go somewhere. So I went to +Panama working my way. Then New York again and a +costume design class. A visit home to D. C. where I met +Langston Hughes. _Opportunity_ accepted my first poem. +Washington for eleven months then New York again. I +arrived penniless and have remained so. Dilatory jobs, +trips to New England, Florida, California and Canada, but +always New York again. The few drawings and sketches +made on these trips were either destroyed, lost, or given +away en route. I began to write seriously and to paint +just as seriously; I entered contests but never won. I am +still penniless and happy and planning to go to Paris and +Vienna by hook or crook. + + +SHADOW + +Silhouette +On the face of the moon +Am I. +A dark shadow in the light. +A silhouette am I +On the face of the moon +Lacking color +Or vivid brightness +But defined all the clearer +Because +I am dark, +Black on the face of the moon. +A shadow am I +Growing in the light, +Not understood as is the day, +But more easily seen +Because +I am a shadow in the light. + + +CAVALIER + +Slay fowl and beast; pluck clean the vine, +Prepare the feast and pearl the wine. +Bring on the best! Bring on the bard, +Bring on the rest. Let nought retard +Nor yet distress with putrid breath, +My new mistress, My Lady Death. + + + + +WARING CUNEY + + +Waring Cuney was born in Washington, D. C., May 6, +1906. He received his education in the public schools of +that city and at Howard University. Later he attended +Lincoln University, and while there sang in the Glee Club +and the quartet. His work with these groups encouraged +him to study music and he is now studying voice at the +New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. His +first published poem was “No Images” which won first +award in the _Opportunity_ contest of 1926. Since then he +has continued to write and his poems have appeared in +_Opportunity_, Braithwaite’s _Anthology_, _The Forum_, and +_Palms_. + + +THE DEATH BED + +All the time they were praying +He watched the shadow of a tree +Flicker on the wall. + +There is no need of prayer, +He said, +No need at all. + +The kin-folk thought it strange +That he should ask them from a dying bed. +But they left all in a row +And it seemed to ease him +To see them go. + +There were some who kept on praying +In a room across the hall +And some who listened to the breeze +That made the shadows waver +On the wall. + +He tried his nerve +On a song he knew +And made an empty note +That might have come, +From a bird’s harsh throat. + +And all the time it worried him +That they were in there praying +And all the time he wondered +What it was they could be saying. + + +A TRIVIALITY + +Not to dance with her +Was such a trivial thing + +There were girls more fair than she,-- + +To-day +Ten girls dressed in white. +Each had a white rose wreath. + +They made a dead man’s arch +And ten strong men +Carried a body through. + +Not to dance with her +Was a trivial thing. + + +I THINK I SEE HIM THERE + +I think I see Him there +With a stern dream on his face + +I see Him there-- + +Wishing they would hurry +The last nail in place. + +And I wonder, had I been there, +Would I have doubted too + +Or would the dream have told me, +What this man speaks is true. + + +DUST + +Dust, + +Through which +Proud blood +Once flowed. + +Dust, + +Where a civilization +Flourished. + +Dust, +The Valley of the Nile, +Dust, + +You proud ones, proud of the skill +With which you play this game--Civilization; +Do not forget that it is a very old game. +Men used to play it on the banks +Of the Tigris and the Euphrates +When the world was a wilderness. + +There is a circle around China +Where once a wall stood. +Carthage is a heap of ashes. +And Rome knew the pomp and glory +You know now. + +The Coliseum tells a story +The Woolworth Building may repeat. + +Dust, +Pharaohs and their armies sleep there. + +Dust, +Shall it stir again? + +Will Pharaohs rise and rule +And their armies march once more? + +_Civilization continually shifts +Upon the places of the earth._ + + +NO IMAGES + +She does not know +Her beauty, +She thinks her brown body +Has no glory. + +If she could dance +Naked, +Under palm trees +And see her image in the river +She would know. + +But there are no palm trees +On the street, +And dish water gives back no images. + + +THE RADICAL + +Men never know +What they are doing. +They always make a muddle +Of their affairs, +They always tie their affairs +Into a knot +They cannot untie. +Then I come in +Uninvited. +They do not ask me in; +I am the radical, +The bomb thrower, +I untie the knot +That they have made, +And they never thank me. + + +TRUE LOVE + +Her love is true I know, +Much more true +Than angel’s love; +For angels love in heaven +Where a thousand harps +Are playing. + +She loves in a tenement +Where the only music +She hears +Is the cry of street car brakes +And the toot of automobile horns +And the drip of a kitchen spigot +All day. +Her love is true I know. + + + + +EDWARD S. SILVERA + + +I was born in Florida in the year 1906--moved to +Orange, N. J., at an early age--graduated from Orange +High School in 1924--am now a Junior at Lincoln University, +Pennsylvania. Here I am a member of the varsity +basket-ball and tennis teams and a member of Kappa +Alpha Psi Fraternity. + +I get a great deal of pleasure out of observing life and +then writing about it just as I see it. + + +SOUTH STREET + +(Philadelphia, Pa.) + +South Street is not beautiful, +But the songs of people there +Hold the beauty of the jungle, +And the fervidness of prayer. + +South Street has no mansions, +But the hands of South Street men +Built pyramids along the Nile +That Time has failed to rend. + +South Street is America, +Breast of the foster mother +Where a thousand ill-kept children +Vie for suck, with one another. + + +JUNGLE TASTE + +There is a coarseness +In the songs of black men +Coarse as the songs +Of the sea, +There is a weird strangeness +In the songs of black men +Which sounds not strange +To me. + +There is beauty +In the faces of black women, +Jungle beauty +And mystery +Dark hidden beauty +In the faces of black women, +Which only black men +See. + + + + +HELENE JOHNSON + + +Helene Johnson was born twenty years ago in Boston, +Mass., where she received her early education and attended +Boston University for a short time. A year ago she came +to New York to attend the Extension Division of Columbia +University. Her work has appeared in _Opportunity_, +_Vanity Fair_ and several New York dailies; and has been +reprinted in _Palms_, _The Literary Digest_, and Braithwaite’s +_Anthology_. + + +WHAT DO I CARE FOR MORNING + +What do I care for morning, +For a shivering aspen tree, +For sun flowers and sumac +Opening greedily? +What do I care for morning, +For the glare of the rising sun, +For a sparrow’s noisy prating, +For another day begun? +Give me the beauty of evening, +The cool consummation of night, +And the moon like a love-sick lady, +Listless and wan and white. +Give me a little valley +Huddled beside a hill, +Like a monk in a monastery, +Safe and contented and still, +Give me the white road glistening, +A strand of the pale moon’s hair, +And the tall hemlocks towering +Dark as the moon is fair. +Oh what do I care for morning, +Naked and newly born-- +Night is here, yielding and tender-- +What do I care for dawn! + + +SONNET TO A NEGRO IN HARLEM + +You are disdainful and magnificent-- +Your perfect body and your pompous gait, +Your dark eyes flashing solemnly with hate, +Small wonder that you are incompetent +To imitate those whom you so despise-- +Your shoulders towering high above the throng, +Your head thrown back in rich, barbaric song, +Palm trees and mangoes stretched before your eyes. +Let others toil and sweat for labor’s sake +And wring from grasping hands their meed of gold. +Why urge ahead your supercilious feet? +Scorn will efface each footprint that you make. +I love your laughter arrogant and bold. +You are too splendid for this city street! + + +SUMMER MATURES + +Summer matures. Brilliant Scorpion +Appears. The Pelican’s thick pouch +Hangs heavily with perch and slugs. +The brilliant-bellied newt flashes +Its crimson crest in the white water. +In the lush meadow, by the river, +The yellow-freckled toad laughs +With a toothless gurgle at the white-necked stork +Standing asleep on one red reedy leg. +And here Pan dreams of slim stalks clean for piping, +And of a nightingale gone mad with freedom. +Come. I shall weave a bed of reeds +And willow limbs and pale nightflowers. +I shall strip the roses of their petals, +And the white down from the swan’s neck. +Come. Night is here. The air is drunk +With wild grape and sweet clover. +And by the sacred fount of Aganippe +Euterpe sings of love. Ah, the woodland creatures, +The doves in pairs, the wild sow and her shoats, +The stag searching the forest for a mate, +Know more of love than you, my callous Phaon. +The young moon is a curved white scimitar +Pierced thru the swooning night. +Sweet Phaon. With Sappho sleep like the stars at dawn. +This night was born for love, my Phaon. +Come. + + +POEM + +Little brown boy, +Slim, dark, big-eyed, +Crooning love songs to your banjo +Down at the Lafayette-- +Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head, +High sort of and a bit to one side, +Like a prince, a jazz prince. And I love +Your eyes flashing, and your hands, +And your patent-leathered feet, +And your shoulders jerking the jig-wa. +And I love your teeth flashing, +And the way your hair shines in the spotlight +Like it was the real stuff. +Gee, brown boy, I loves you all over. +I’m glad I’m a jig. I’m glad I can +Understand your dancin’ and your +Singin’, and feel all the happiness +And joy and don’t care in you. +Gee, boy, when you sing, I can close my ears +And hear tom toms just as plain. +Listen to me, will you, what do I know +About tom toms? But I like the word, sort of, +Don’t you? It belongs to us. +Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head, +And the way you sing, and dance, +And everything. +Say, I think you’re wonderful. You’re +Allright with me, +You are. + + +FULFILLMENT + +To climb a hill that hungers for the sky, + To dig my hands wrist deep in pregnant earth, +To watch a young bird, veering, learn to fly, + To give a still, stark poem shining birth. + +To hear the rain drool, dimpling, down the drain + And splash with a wet giggle in the street, +To ramble in the twilight after supper, + And to count the pretty faces that you meet. + +To ride to town on trolleys, crowded, teeming + With joy and hurry and laughter and push and sweat-- +Squeezed next a patent-leathered Negro dreaming + Of a wrinkled river and a minnow net. + +To buy a paper from a breathless boy, + And read of kings and queens in foreign lands, +Hyperbole of romance and adventure, + All for a penny the color of my hand. + +To lean against a strong tree’s bosom, sentient + And hushed before the silent prayer it breathes, +To melt the still snow with my seething body + And kiss the warm earth tremulous underneath. + +Ah, life, to let your stabbing beauty pierce me + And wound me like we did the studded Christ, +To grapple with you, loving you too fiercely, + And to die bleeding--consummate with Life. + + +THE ROAD + +Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze, +A leaping clay hill lost among the trees, +The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrush +Caught in a drowsy hush +And stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song. +Ah little road, brown as my race is brown, +Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride, +Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down. +Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry! + + +BOTTLED + +Upstairs on the third floor +Of the 135th Street library +In Harlem, I saw a little +Bottle of sand, brown sand +Just like the kids make pies +Out of down at the beach. +But the label said: “This +Sand was taken from the Sahara desert.” +Imagine that! The Sahara desert! +Some bozo’s been all the way to Africa to get some sand. + +And yesterday on Seventh Avenue +I saw a darky dressed fit to kill +In yellow gloves and swallow tail coat +And swirling a cane. And everyone +Was laughing at him. Me too, +At first, till I saw his face +When he stopped to hear a +Organ grinder grind out some jazz. +Boy! You should a seen that darky’s face! +It just shone. Gee, he was happy! +And he began to dance. No +Charleston or Black Bottom for him. +No sir. He danced just as dignified +And slow. No, not slow either. +Dignified and _proud_! You couldn’t +Call it slow, not with all the +Cuttin’ up he did. You would a died to see him. + +The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear, +Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that cane +And yellin’ out loud every once in a while. +I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo. +But say, I was where I could see his face, +And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle, +A real honest-to-cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t have on them +Trick clothes--those yaller shoes and yaller gloves +And swallow-tail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing. +And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane. +He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine point +Like the bayonets we had “over there.” +And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of +Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and gleaming. +And he’d have rings in his ears and on his nose +And bracelets and necklaces of elephants’ teeth. +Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right. +No one would laugh at him then, I bet. +Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desert +And put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library, +That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him. +Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything--all glass-- +But inside-- +Gee, that poor shine! + + +MAGALU + +Summer comes. +The ziczac hovers +’Round the greedy-mouthed crocodile. +A vulture bears away a foolish jackal. +The flamingo is a dash of pink +Against dark green mangroves, +Her slender legs rivalling her slim neck. +The laughing lake gurgles delicious music in its throat +And lulls to sleep the lazy lizard, +A nebulous being on a sun-scorched rock. +In such a place, +In this pulsing, riotous gasp of color, +I met Magalu, dark as a tree at night, +Eager-lipped, listening to a man with a white collar +And a small black book with a cross on it. +Oh Magalu, come! Take my hand and I will read you poetry, +Chromatic words, +Seraphic symphonies, +Fill up your throat with laughter and your heart with song. +Do not let him lure you from your laughing waters, +Lulling lakes, lissome winds. +Would you sell the colors of your sunset and the fragrance +Of your flowers, and the passionate wonder of your forest +For a creed that will not let you dance? + + + + +WESLEY CURTWRIGHT + + +Wesley Curtwright was born in Brunswick, Georgia, on +November 30, 1910, but he knows as little about Georgia, +perhaps, as about any state in the South. Immediately +after his father’s death in 1913, he began a disjointed +tour of the land. He has “broken out in spots” of a dozen +states both South and North, attending at intervals various +schools. He lives in New York at present and has +lived there three years. He is attending Harlem Academy, +a small private school. He has contributed to _Opportunity_ +and _The Messenger_. + + +THE CLOSE OF DAY + +“To meet and then to part,” and that is all, +To slowly turn an album’s crusty leaves, +To see the faces and the scenes recall, +Are things that in a lifetime one achieves. + +To wander down a broad-arch gallery, +Viewing the scenes from life on either side, +Pressed forward with the force of years to see +But part of every picture when espied. + +The big sun in its blue dome keeps its course, +Without a falter moves upon its way. +So human life, returning to its source, +Is overtaken by the close of day. +To dream, and being rudely waked from thought, +Return to peaceful dreaming dearly bought. + + + + +LULA LOWE WEEDEN + + +Lula Lowe Weeden was born in Lynchburg, Va., Feb. +4, 1918. Her mother, Mrs. Lula L. Weeden, herself a +poet of ability, writes of this youngest of Negro singers: +“She is a very close observer. Each flower in my garden +she knows. Sometimes she counts each bloom, lingering +over those she likes most. + +“Each one of my children is very distinct in her make +up. Lula is quiet, sweet and unselfish, a decided contrast +to the second. This gives each a chance for moral development +while trying to adjust her little mind to the other. A +few nights ago, Iola the second child slapped Mary the +baby. Lula said to Iola, ‘You are not being a good citizen +when you strike back even if Mary did slap you.’ Another +time, Iola was saying what her teacher had said +about her. Lula remarked, ‘It is not what she says you +do, it is what you do do.’ Neither statement meant much +to Iola. + +“I have always mixed my night time stories with ‘Home +spun ones.’ All seem to like them best. I asked Lula +since Christmas why she liked my stories. She said because +they seemed to be true, and criticized fairy stories. + +“I have emphasized racial stories for this reason--I +was born on a big farm. There were many employed by +my father, also tenants. With these we were not allowed +to mingle. On the edge of the farm there was a white +school. There was a barrier also. Those little girls with +golden locks looked like little angels to me. How I +wished to be like them with their shrill voices and laughter. +They seemed so happy. I just thought of them as things +apart. It took much to get this false conception out of +me. They were just God sent. This I have tried not to +have my children to fight. Now neither one wishes to be +white or dislikes them. To them, they all seem like +people. + +“Lula does most of her writing at night. It is a privilege +to remain a few minutes after the other children to +finish something. Some nights she will write several. She +mumbles them to herself before she begins to write and +then keeps saying the words softly. She will finish this +and will draw figures and flowers or people. This she +does very well for a child until she says, ‘I am going to +write something else.’ Interruptions don’t seem to bother +her very much as the little ones are always saying something +to make her laugh. I usually attempt to quiet them, +but some of her best things are written with many around. + +“When she shows them to me, she watches for a favorable +expression. I always try to be pleased, but somehow +she knows from my face that that was not so good, +then remarks, ‘I am going to write something else.’ + +“The amusing part about it all is that she feels as she +has begun to write at a mature age, but consoles herself +with this statement, ‘Stevenson did not begin to write until +he was fifteen and wrote very skillful things.’ + +“Lula is just a little girl and is very talkative if anyone +appeals to her and will talk with her. You can’t +explain anything too minutely for her--whether it is her +Sunday school lesson or a star, it matters little.” + + +ME ALONE + +As I was going to town, +I saw a King and a Queen. +Such ringing of bells you never heard, +The clerks ran out of the stores; +You know how it was, Me alone. +I was standing as the others were, +“Oh! you little girl,” some one said, +“The King wants you,” +I became frightened +Wondering what he had to say, +Me alone. +Here’s what he wanted: +He wanted me to ride in his coach, +I felt myself so much riding in a King’s coach, +Me alone. + + +HAVE YOU SEEN IT + +Have you ever seen the moon +And stars stick together? +Have you ever seen it? +Have you ever seen bad? +Have you ever seen good +And bad stick together? +Have you ever seen it? + + +ROBIN RED BREAST + +Little Robin red breast, +I hear you sing your song. +I would love to have you put it into my little cage, +Into my little mouth. + + +THE STREAM + +It was running down to the great Atlantic. +I called it back to me, +But it slyly looked and said, +“I have not time to waste,” +And just went arunning running on. + + +THE LITTLE DANDELION + +The dandelion stares +In the yellow sunlight. +How very still it is! +When it is old and grey, +I blow its white hair away, +And leave it with a bald head. + + +DANCE + +Down at the hall at midnight sometimes, +You hear them singing rhymes. +These girls are dancing with boys. +They are too big for toys. + + + + +INDEX + + +_Absence_, 91 + +Across the dewy lawn she treads, 195 + +A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, 5 + +_Advice_, 156 + +A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well, 15 + +_Africa_, 123 + +_After All_, 191 + +_After the Quarrel_, 5 + +Ah, how poets sing and die, 50 + +Ah, I know what happiness is, 107 + +Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze, 221 + +Ah, you are cruel, 47 + +ALEXANDER, LEWIS, 122 + +ALLEN, GEORGE LEONARD, 203 + +All that night I walked alone and wept, 169 + +All the time they were praying, 208 + +Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, 83 + +Always at dusk, the same tearless experience, 37 + +_America_, 83 + +And God stepped out on space, 19 + +_And What Shall You Say?_, 103 + +_April Day, An_, 102 + +A silence slipping around like death, 46 + +As I was going to town, 227 + +A tree is more than a shadow, 170 + +_At the Carnival_, 53 + +_Auf Wiedersehen_, 189 + + +_Baby Cobina_, 200 + +_Baker’s Boy, The_, 58 + +_Band of Gideon, The_, 103 + +Beat the drums of tragedy for me, 148 + +BENNETT, GWENDOLYN B., 153 + +_Black Madonna, The_, 177 + +_Black Man Talks of Reaping, A_, 165 + +Black reapers with the sound of steel on stone, 94 + +_Blight_, 170 + +Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold, 99 + +BONTEMPS, ARNA, 162 + +_Bottled_, 221 + +Bow down my soul in worship very low, 87 + +BRAITHWAITE, WILLIAM STANLEY, 31 + +BROOKS, JONATHAN HENDERSON, 192 + +Brother, come, 103 + +Brother to the firefly, 55 + +BROWN, STERLING A., 129 + +Brown Baby Cobina, 200 + +BRUCE, RICHARD, 205 + +Brushes and paints are all I have, 155 + + +_Cavalier_, 207 + +Cemeteries are places for departed souls, 159 + +_Challenge_, 138 + +Chilled into a serenity, 110 + +_Close of Day, The_, 225 + +_Close Your Eyes_, 171 + +Come, brother, come. Let’s lift it, 97 + +_Confession_, 190 + +Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away, 79 + +COTTER, JOSEPH S., SR., 10 + +COTTER, JOSEPH S., JR., 99 + +_Cotton Song_, 97 + +Could I but retrace, 125 + +_Creation, The_, 19 + +_Creed_, 51 + +CULLEN, COUNTEE, 179 + +CUNEY, WARING, 207 + +CURTWRIGHT, WESLEY, 224 + + +_Dance_, 229 + +_Dark Brother, The_, 124 + +_Day and Night_, 129 + +_Day-breakers, The_, 171 + +Dear, when we sit in that high, placid room, 66 + +_Death Bed, The_, 208 + +_Death Song_, 4 + +_Debt, The_, 9 + +DELANY, CLARISSA SCOTT, 140 + +_Del Cascar_, 33 + +De railroad bridge’s a sad song, 147 + +_Deserter, The_, 102 + +_Desolate_, 88 + +DICKINSON, BLANCHE TAYLOR, 105 + +Down at the hall at midnight sometimes, 229 + +_Dream Variation_, 149 + +_Dreams of the Dreamer, The_, 80 + +DU BOIS, WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT, 25 + +DUNBAR, PAUL LAURENCE, 1 + +_Dunbar_, 50 + +_Dusk_, 46 + +_Dust_, 210 + +Dust, through which proud blood once flowed, 210 + + +_Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes_, 2 + +_Evening Song_, 94 + +_Exhortation: Summer, 1919_, 84 + +_Eyes of My Regret, The_, 37 + + +_Face_, 98 + +_Fantasy_, 158 + +_Fantasy in Purple_, 148 + +Father John’s bread was made of rye, 31 + +FAUSET, JESSIE, 64 + +Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa, 52 + +_Flame-Heart_, 85 + +_For the Candle Light_, 45 + +For this peculiar tint that paints my house, 92 + +_Four Epitaphs_, 186 + +Four great walls have hemmed me in, 110 + +_Four Walls_, 110 + +_Fragment_, 70 + +Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue, 75 + +_From the Dark Tower_, 183 + +_From the German of Uhland_, 17 + +_Fulfillment_, 219 + +Full moon rising on the waters of my heart, 94 + + +Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, 53 + +_Georgia Dusk_, 95 + +_Gethsemane_, 169 + +Give over to high things the fervent thought, 182 + +_Glory of the Day Was in Her Face, The_, 18 + +_God Give to Men_, 172 + +God give the yellow man, 172 + +_Golgotha Is a Mountain_, 173 + +Go through the gates with closed eyes, 171 + +_Grass Fingers_, 38 + +_Greenness_, 36 + +GRIMKÉ, ANGELINA WELD, 35 + + +Hair--silver-gray, like streams of stars, 98 + +_Hatred_, 160 + +Have you ever seen the moon, 228 + +_Have You Seen It_, 228 + +HAYES, DONALD JEFFREY, 188 + +HAYFORD, GLADYS MAY CASELY, 196 + +_Heart of a Woman, The_, 81 + +He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black, 160 + +Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade, 204 + +Her love is true I know, 213 + +He scans the world with calm and fearless eyes, 34 + +He wrote upon his heart, 188 + +His friends went off and left Him dead, 193 + +_Homesick Blues_, 147 + +_Homing_, 172 + +_Hope_, 75 + +HORNE, FRANK, 111 + +_House in Taos, A_, 152 + +How did it happen that we quarreled? 65 + +HUGHES, LANGSTON, 144 + +_Hushed by the Hands of Sleep_, 36 + + +I am so tired and weary, 101 + +I ask you this, 146 + +I buried you deeper last night, 113 + +I cannot hold my peace, John Keats, 184 + +I do not ask for love, ah! no, 77 + +I doubt not God is good, 182 + +I had no thought of violets of late, 72 + +_I Have a Friend_, 47 + +_I Have a Rendezvous with Life_, 180 + +I have gone back in boyish wonderment, 139 + +I have seen a lovely thing, 170 + +I have sown beside all waters in my day, 165 + +I have the greatest fun at night, 58 + +I kissed a kiss in youth, 31 + +I know not why or whence he came, 102 + +I know what the caged bird feels, alas! 8 + +I laks yo’ kin’ of lovin’, 134 + +I long not now, 181 + +I love you for your brownness, 157 + +I love your hands, 44 + +I return the bitterness, 124 + +I said, in drunken pride of youth and you, 138 + +I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night, 158 + +I see in your eyes, 178 + +I shall come this way again, 189 + +I shall hate you, 160 + +I shall make a song like your hair, 155 + +I should like to creep, 42 + +_I Sit and Sew_, 73 + +I that had found the way so smooth, 70 + +_I Think I See Him There_, 210 + +I think that man hath, 204 + +I thought I saw an angel flying low, 166 + +_I Too_, 145 + +_I Want to Die While You Love Me_, 78 + +_I Weep_, 45 + +I went to court last night, 63 + +If I have run my course and seek the pearls, 64 + +If my garden oak spares one bare ledge, 51 + +I’m folding up my little dreams, 79 + +_Incident_, 187 + +_Innocence_, 51 + +_Inscription_, 188 + +_Interim_, 142 + +In wintertime I have such fun, 59 + +Is Life itself but many ways of thought, 48 + +It crawled away ’neath my feet, 109 + +It is fitting that you be here, 112 + +It was running down to the great Atlantic, 228 + +I’ve known rivers, 149 + + +_Japanese Hokku_, 127 + +Jericho is on the inside, 106 + +JOHNSON, FENTON, 61 + +JOHNSON, GEORGIA DOUGLAS, 74 + +JOHNSON, HELENE, 215 + +JOHNSON, JAMES WELDON, 15 + +_Joy_, 140 + +Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail, 140 + +_Jungle Taste_, 214 + + +Lady, my lady, come from out the garden, 136 + +_Lancelot_, 169 + +_Last Quarter Moon of the Dying Year, The_, 195 + +_La Vie C’est La Vie_, 69 + +Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, 4 + +Lemme be wid Casey Jones, 130 + +_Length of Moon_, 168 + +_Lethe_, 77 + +Let me learn now where Beauty is, 48 + +_Letters Found Near a Suicide_, 114 + +_Life_, 5 + +_Life-Long, Poor Browning_, 49 + +_Lines to a Nasturtium_, 52 + +_Lines Written at the Grave of Alexander Dumas_, 159 + +_Litany of Atlanta, A_, 26 + +Little black boy, 120 + +Little brown boy, 218 + +_Little Dandelion, The_, 229 + +Little Robin red breast, 228 + +_Little Son_, 76 + +“Lo, I am black but I am comely too,” 124 + +Lolotte, who attires my hair, 67 + +_Long Gone_, 134 + +Long have I beat with timid hands, 76 + + +_Magalu_, 223 + +_Marathon Runner, The_, 64 + +_Mask, The_, 143 + +MATHEUS, JOHN FREDERICK, 60 + +_Maumee Ruth_, 133 + +MCCALL, JAMES EDWARD, 33 + +MCKAY, CLAUDE, 81 + +_Me Alone_, 227 + +Men never know, 212 + +Might as well bury her, 133 + +_Mona Lisa, A_, 42 + +_Morning Light_, 55 + +_Mother to Son_, 151 + +_My City_, 25 + +My heart that was so passionless, 70 + +_My House_, 92 + +_My Little Dreams_, 79 + +My little stone, 114 + +My spirit is a pestilential city, 88 + +My window opens out into the trees, 141 + + +_Nativity_, 197 + +_Negro Speaks of Rivers, The_, 149 + +_Negro Woman_, 122 + +_Neighbors_, 47 + +NELSON, ALICE DUNBAR, 71 + +_New Negro, The_, 34 + +NEWSOME, MARY EFFIE LEE, 55 + +_Nigger_, 120 + +_Night_, 189 + +Night like purple flakes of snow, 189 + +_Noblesse Oblige_, 67 + +_Nocturne_, 190 + +_Nocturne at Bethesda_, 166 + +_No Images_, 212 + +_Northboun’_, 201 + +Not as the white nations, 177 + +Not to dance with her, 209 + +_November Cotton Flower_, 99 + + +O apple blossoms, 127 + +O brothers mine, take care! Take care!, 22 + +_October XXIX, 1795_, 32 + +O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat, 201 + +_Odyssey of Big Boy_, 130 + +Oh, the blue, blue bloom, 56 + +_Old Black Men_, 77 + +Once more, listening to the wind and rain, 163 + +Once riding in old Baltimore, 187 + +_On Seeing Two Brown Boys in a Catholic Church_, 112 + +On such a day as this I think, 102 + +On summer afternoons I sit, 69 + +On the dusty earth-drum, 100 + +O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar, 26 + +Out in the sky the great clouds are massing, 7 + +Out of the tense awed darkness, 198 + +O you would clothe me in silken frocks, 87 + + +_Paean_, 195 + +_Pansy_, 56 + +_Paradox_, 48 + +_Poem_, 107 + +_Poem_, 150 + +_Poem_, 218 + +_Portrait_, 204 + +Pour O pour that parting soul in song, 96 + +_Prayer_, 146 + +_Protest_, 181 + +_Proving_, 77 + +_Puck Goes to Court_, 63 + +_Puppet Player, The_, 46 + + +_Quatrains_, 155 + +_Questing_, 48 + +_Quilt, The_, 58 + +_Quoits_, 59 + + +_Radical, The_, 212 + +_Rain Music_, 100 + +_Rainy Season Love Song_, 198 + +_Reapers_, 94 + +_Recessional_, 79 + +_Rencontre_, 70 + +_Requiem_, 61 + +_Resurrection, The_, 193 + +_Return_, 139 + +_Return, The_, 70 + +_Return, The_, 163 + +_Revelation_, 107 + +RICE, ALBERT, 176 + +_Road, The_, 221 + +_Robin Red Breast_, 228 + +_Russian Cathedral_, 87 + +_Rye Bread_, 31 + + +_Salutamus_, 138 + +_Sassafras Tea_, 56 + +_Scintilla_, 31 + +_Secret_, 155 + +_Service_, 75 + +_Serving Girl, The_, 200 + +_Shadow_, 206 + +She does not know, 212 + +She kneeled before me begging, 190 + +She tripped and fell against a star, 51 + +She walked along the crowded street, 107 + +She wears, my beloved, a rose upon her head, 61 + +_Ships That Pass in the Night_, 7 + +Silhouette on the face of the moon, 206 + +SILVERA, EDWARD S., 213 + +_Sky Pictures_, 57 + +Slay fowl and beast; pluck clean the vine, 207 + +_Snow in October_, 71 + +So detached and cool she is, 143 + +Softly blow lightly, 190 + +_Solace_, 141 + +Some things are very dear to me, 161 + +Sometimes a right white mountain, 57 + +Sometimes it seems as though some puppet player, 46 + +So much have I forgotten in ten years, 85 + +_Song for a Dark Girl_, 147 + +_Song of the Son_, 96 + +_Sonnet_, 72 + +_Sonnet_, 160 + +_Sonnet_, 161 + +_Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem_, 217 + +_South Street_, 214 + +So we, who’ve supped the self-same cup, 5 + +SPENCER, ANNE, 47 + +_Stream, The_, 228 + +_Substitution_, 48 + +_Suicide’s Note_, 151 + +Summer comes, 223 + +_Summer Matures_, 217 + +_Suppliant, The_, 76 + +_Supplication_, 101 + +_Surrender_, 38 + +Sweet timber land, 172 + +_Sympathy_, 8 + + +_Tanka_, 125 + +Tell me is there anything lovelier, 36 + +_Tenebris_, 40 + +_That Hill_, 109 + +The baker’s boy delivers loaves, 58 + +The band of Gideon roam the sky, 103 + +The bitterness of days like these we know, 138 + +The breath of life imbued those few dim days, 70 + +The calabash wherein she served my food, 200 + +The calm, 151 + +The dandelion stares, 229 + +The day is a Negro, 129 + +The fruit of the orchard is over-ripe, Elaine, 169 + +The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, 81 + +The hills are wroth; the stones have scored, 165 + +The night is beautiful, 150 + +The night was made for rest and sleep, 142 + +Then the golden hour, 168 + +There is a coarseness, 214 + +There is a tree, by day, 40 + +There was a man, 11 + +The sass’fras tea is red and clear, 56 + +The sky hangs heavy tonight, 122 + +The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue, 95 + +The sky was blue, so blue that day, 45 + +The very acme of my woe, 76 + +They have dreamed as young men dream, 77 + +This is the debt I pay, 9 + +This lovely flower fell to seed, 186 + +Thou art not dead, although the spoiler’s hand, 123 + +Three students once tarried over the Rhine, 17 + +Through the pregnant universe, 84 + +Thunder of the Rain God, 152 + +Time sitting on the throne of Memory, 32 + +’Tis queer, it is, the ways to men, 39 + +_To a Certain Lady, in Her Garden_, 136 + +_To a Certain Woman_, 178 + +_To a Dark Girl_, 157 + +_To an Icicle_, 110 + +_To a Persistent Phantom_, 113 + +_To a Young Girl Leaving the Hill Country_, 165 + +To climb a hill that hungers for the sky, 219 + +Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty, 71 + +To fling my arms wide, 149 + +_To John Keats, Poet, at Springtime_, 184 + +_To Lovers of Earth: Fair Warning_, 182 + +“To meet and then to part,” 225 + +_To Melody_, 204 + +TOOMER, JEAN, 93 + +_Touché_, 66 + +Touch me, touch me, 38 + +_Tragedy of Pete, The_, 11 + +_Transformation_, 124 + +_Tree Design, A_, 170 + +_Triviality, A_, 209 + +_True Love_, 213 + +Twin stars through my purpling pane, 46 + + +Upstairs on the third floor, 221 + + +_Walls of Jericho, The_, 106 + +Way down South in Dixie, 147 + +_Way-side Well, The_, 15 + +_Ways o’ Men, The_, 39 + +We are not come to wage a strife, 171 + +We ask for peace. We, at the bound, 38 + +WEEDEN, LULA LOWE, 225 + +Well, son, I’ll tell you, 151 + +Were you a leper bathed in wounds, 77 + +We shall not always plant while others reap, 183 + +_We Wear the Mask_, 8 + +_What Do I Care for Morning_, 216 + +_What Need Have I for Memory?_, 80 + +What! Roses growing in the meadow, 59 + +When face to face we stand, 43 + +When first you sang a song to me, 157 + +_When I am Dead_, 80 + +When I come down to sleep death’s endless night, 25 + +_When I Die_, 62 + +_When the Green Lies Over the Earth_, 41 + +When we count out our gold at the end of the day, 75 + +_White Witch, The_, 22 + +_Wild Goat, The_, 87 + +_Wild Roses_, 59 + +WILLIAMS, LUCY ARIEL, 201 + +_Winter Twilight, A_, 46 + +Within a native hut, 197 + +_Words! Words!_, 65 + + +_Yet Do I Marvel_, 182 + +You are disdainful and magnificent, 217 + +_Your Hands_, 44 + +_Your Songs_, 157 + +Your words dropped into my heart, 91 + +You were a sophist, 156 + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber’s note + + +Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. + +Page number references in the index are as published in the original +publication and have not been checked for accuracy in this eBook. + +Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following +changes: + +Page vi: “_No’thboun’_ by Lucy Ariel” “_Northboun’_ by Lucy Ariel” +Page 47: “its so involved and” “it’s so involved and” +Page 66: “TOUCHE” “TOUCHÉ” +Page 206: “an all-womens’ hotel” “an all-women’s hotel” +Page 230: “Ah, little road” “Ah, little road all” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76889 *** diff --git a/76889-h/76889-h.htm b/76889-h/76889-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..098caf0 --- /dev/null +++ b/76889-h/76889-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11446 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Caroling dusk | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +ul.index { list-style-type: none; } +li.ifrst { + margin-top: 1em; + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 1em; +} +li.indx { + margin-top: .5em; + text-indent: -2em; + padding-left: 1em; +} + + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td, +table.autotable th { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +blockquote { + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: 1px dashed;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +.author { + text-align: right; + margin-right: 20% + } + +.x-ebookmaker body {margin: 0;} +.x-ebookmaker-drop {color: inherit;} + +.ph2, .ph3 { text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; } +.ph2 { font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; } +.ph3 { font-size: large; margin: .83em auto; } + +p.hanging-indent1 { + padding-left: 2.25em; + text-indent: -2.25em; +} + +.tnote {border: dashed 1px; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; +padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; padding-left: .5em; +padding-right: .5em;} + +.indent { + margin-left: 2em; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent1 {text-indent: -2.5em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;} +.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: -1.0em;} +.poetry .indent6 {text-indent: 0.0em;} +.poetry .indent8 {text-indent: 1.0em;} +.poetry .indent10 {text-indent: 2.0em;} +.poetry .indent12 {text-indent: 3.0em;} +.poetry .indent14 {text-indent: 4.0em;} +.poetry .indent18 {text-indent: 6.0em;} +.poetry .indent26 {text-indent: 10.0em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76889 ***</div> + +<h1> +CAROLING DUSK +</h1> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Books_by_Countee_Cullen"> + <i>Books by Countee Cullen</i> + </h2> +</div> + +<p class="center"> + Color<br> + Copper Sun<br> + The Ballad of the Brown Girl<br> + The Medea<br> + The Lost Zoo<br> + My Lives and How I Lost Them<br> + On These I Stand<br> + One Way to Heaven +</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Edited by Countee Cullen</i></p> + +<p class="center"> + Caroling Dusk +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="ph2"> + CAROLING<br> + DUSK<br> + </p> +<p class="ph3"> + <i>An Anthology of Verse</i><br> + <i>by Negro Poets</i><br> + <br> + Edited by<br> + COUNTEE CULLEN<br> + </p> +<p class="ph3"> + HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS<br> + New York, Evanston, San Francisco, London +</p> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <p> + CAROLING DUSK. Copyright 1927 by Harper & Brothers. Copyright renewed + 1955 by Ida M. Cullen. All rights reserved. Printed in the United + States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced + in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the + case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. + For information address Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 10 East 53rd + Street, New York, N. Y. 10022. Published simultaneously in Canada by + Fitzhenry & Whiteside Limited, Toronto.</p> + <p> + ISBN: 0-06-010926-2<br> + <br> + LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 27-23175</p> + +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</span></p> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ACKNOWLEDGMENTS"> + ACKNOWLEDGMENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<p>For permission to use the poems in this anthology, the editor wishes to +thank the poets represented, and the following magazines and publishers:</p> +<blockquote> +<p class="hanging-indent1">Dodd, Mead and Co. for poems from <i>The Collected Poems of Paul +Laurence Dunbar</i></p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Boni and Liveright for poems from <i>Cane</i> by Jean Toomer</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Alfred A. Knopf for poems from <i>The Weary Blues</i> and <i>Fine +Clothes to the Jew</i> by Langston Hughes</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Viking Press for “The Creation” from <i>God’s Trombones</i> by +James Weldon Johnson</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Cornhill Publishing Co. for poems from <i>The Band of Gideon</i> +by Joseph S. Cotter, and from <i>Fifty Years and other Poems</i> by +James Weldon Johnson, and from <i>The Heart of a Woman</i> by Georgia +Douglas Johnson</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Harcourt, Brace & Co. for poems from <i>Harlem Shadows</i> by Claude +McKay and for <i>A Litany of Atlanta</i> by W. E. B. DuBois</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Harper & Brothers for poems from <i>Color</i> and <i>Copper Sun</i> +by Countee Cullen</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">B. J. Brimmer Co. for poems from <i>Bronze</i> by Georgia Douglas +Johnson</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Opportunity: A Journal of Negro Life for <i>Desolate</i> and <i>My +House</i> by Claude McKay; <i>Old Black Men</i> by Georgia Douglas +Johnson; <i>Summer Matures</i>, <i>Fulfillment</i>, <i>The Road</i> +by Helene Johnson; <i>Portrait</i> by George Leonard Allen; <i>For +the Candlelight</i> by Angelina Weld Grimké; <i>The Return</i>, +<i>Golgotha Is a Mountain</i>, <i>The Day Breakers</i>, and <i>God +Give to Men</i> by Arna Bontemps; <i>I Have a Rendezvous With +Life</i> by Countee Cullen; <i>Lines Written <span class="pagenum" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</span>at the Grave of +Alexander Dumas</i> and <i>Hatred</i> by Gwendolyn B. Bennett; +<i>Joy</i>, <i>Solace</i>, <i>Interim</i> by Clarissa Scott Delany; +<i>Confession</i> by Donald Jeffrey Hayes; <i>On Seeing Two Brown +Boys In a Catholic Church</i> and <i>To a Persistent Phantom</i> by +Frank Horne; <i>Poem</i> by Blanche Taylor Dickinson; <i>The New +Negro</i> by James Edward McCall; <i>The Tragedy of Pete</i> and +<i>The Wayside Well</i> by Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.; <i>No Images</i> by +Waring Cuney; <i>Northboun’</i> by Lucy Ariel Williams; <i>Shadow</i> +by Richard Bruce; <i>The Resurrection</i> by Jonathan H. Brooks; +<i>Africa and Transformation</i> by Lewis Alexander</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Conning Tower of the New York World for <i>Noblesse Oblige</i> by +Jessie Redmond Fauset</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Crisis for <i>That Hill</i> by Blanche Taylor Dickinson; +<i>Nocturne at Bethesda</i> by Arna Bontemps; <i>Letters Found Near +a Suicide</i> by Frank Horne; <i>Morning Light</i> by Mary Effie Lee +Newsome; <i>Dunbar</i> by Anne Spencer</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Century for <i>My City</i> by James Weldon Johnson</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Vanity Fair for <i>Bottled</i> by Helene Johnson</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Palms for <i>A Tree Design</i> by Arna Bontemps; <i>Lines to a +Nasturtium</i> by Anne Spencer; <i>Black Madonna</i> by Albert Rice; +<i>Words! Words!</i> by Jessie Fauset; <i>Magula</i> by Helene +Johnson; and <i>The Mask</i> by Clarissa Scott Delany</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">Fire for <i>Jungle Taste</i> by Edward S. Silvera; <i>Length of +Moon</i> by Arna Bontemps; <i>The Death Bed</i> by Waring Cuney</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The World Tomorrow for <i>A Black Man Talks of Reaping</i> by Arna +Bontemps</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Survey for <i>Russian Cathedral</i> by Claude McKay</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Atlantic Monthly for <i>Nativity</i> and <i>The Serving Girl</i> +by Gladys Casley Hayford</p> + +<p class="hanging-indent1">The Carolina Magazine for <i>The Dark Brother</i> by Lewis Alexander</p> +</blockquote> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="FOREWORD"> + FOREWORD + </h2> +</div> + +<p>It is now five years since James Weldon Johnson edited with a brilliant +essay on “The Negro’s Creative Genius” <i>The Book of American Negro +Poetry</i>, four years since the publication of Robert T. Kerlin’s +<i>Negro Poets and Their Poems</i>, and three years since from the +Trinity College Press in Durham, North Carolina, came <i>An Anthology +of Verse by American Negroes</i>, edited by Newman Ivey White and +Walter Clinton Jackson. The student of verse by American Negro poets +will find in these three anthologies comprehensive treatment of the +work of Negro poets from Phyllis Wheatley, the first American Negro +known to have composed verses, to writers of the present day. With Mr. +Johnson’s scholarly and painstaking survey, from both a historical +and a critical standpoint, of the entire range of verse by American +Negroes, and with Professor Kerlin’s inclusions of excerpts from the +work of most of those Negro poets whose poems were extant at the time +of his compilation, there would be scant reason for the assembling and +publication of another such collection were it not for the new voices +that within the past three to five years have sung so significantly +as to make imperative an anthology recording some snatches of their +songs. To those intelligently familiar with what is popularly termed +the renaissance in art and literature <span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</span>by Negroes, it will not be taken +as a sentimentally risky observation to contend that the recent yearly +contests conducted by Negro magazines, such as <i>Opportunity</i> and +<i>The Crisis</i>, as well as a growing tendency on the part of white +editors to give impartial consideration to the work of Negro writers, +have awakened to a happy articulation many young Negro poets who had +thitherto lisped only in isolated places in solitary numbers. It is +primarily to give them a concerted hearing that this collection has +been published. For most of these poets the publication of individual +volumes of their poems is not an immediate issue. However, many of +their poems during these four or five years of accentuated interest in +the artistic development of the race have become familiar to a large +and ever-widening circle of readers who, we feel, will welcome a volume +marshaling what would otherwise remain for some time a miscellany of +deeply appreciated but scattered verse.</p> + +<p>The place of poetry in the cultural development of a race or people has +always been one of importance; indeed, poets are prone, with many good +reasons for their conceit, to hold their art the most important. Thus +while essentially wishing to draw the public ear to the work of the +younger Negro poets, there have been included with their poems those +of modern Negro poets already established and acknowledged, by virtue +of their seniority and published books, as worthy practitioners of +their art. There were Negro poets before Paul Laurence Dunbar, but his +uniquity as the first Negro to attain to and maintain a distinguished +place among <span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</span>American poets, a place fairly merited by the most +acceptable standards of criticism, makes him the pivotal poet of this +volume.</p> + +<p>I have called this collection an anthology of verse by Negro poets +rather than an anthology of Negro verse, since this latter designation +would be more confusing than accurate. Negro poetry, it seems to me, +in the sense that we speak of Russian, French, or Chinese poetry, +must emanate from some country other than this in some language other +than our own. Moreover, the attempt to corral the outbursts of the +ebony muse into some definite mold to which all poetry by Negroes +will conform seems altogether futile and aside from the facts. This +country’s Negro writers may here and there turn some singular facet +toward the literary sun, but in the main, since theirs is also the +heritage of the English language, their work will not present any +serious aberration from the poetic tendencies of their times. The +conservatives, the middlers, and the arch heretics will be found among +them as among the white poets; and to say that the pulse beat of their +verse shows generally such a fever, or the symptoms of such an ague, +will prove on closer examination merely the moment’s exaggeration of +a physician anxious to establish a new literary ailment. As heretical +as it may sound, there is the probability that Negro poets, dependent +as they are on the English language, may have more to gain from +the rich background of English and American poetry than from any +nebulous atavistic yearnings toward an African inheritance. Some of +the poets herein represented <span class="pagenum" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</span>will eventually find inclusion in any +discriminatingly ordered anthology of American verse, and there will +be no reason for giving such selections the needless distinction of a +separate section marked Negro verse.</p> + +<p>While I do not feel that the work of these writers conforms to anything +that can be called the Negro school of poetry, neither do I feel +that their work is varied to the point of being sensational; rather +is theirs a variety within a uniformity that is trying to maintain +the higher traditions of English verse. I trust the selections +here presented bear out this contention. The poet writes out of +his experience, whether it be personal or vicarious, and as these +experiences differ among other poets, so do they differ among Negro +poets; for the double obligation of being both Negro and American +is not so unified as we are often led to believe. A survey of the +work of Negro poets will show that the individual diversifying ego +transcends the synthesizing hue. From the roots of varied experiences +have flowered the dialect of Dunbar, the recent sermon poems of James +Weldon Johnson, and some of Helene Johnson’s more colloquial verses, +which, differing essentially only in a few expressions peculiar to +Negro slang, are worthy counterparts of verses done by John V. A. +Weaver “in American.” Attempt to hedge all these in with a name, and +your imagination must deny the facts. Langston Hughes, poetizing +the blues in his zeal to represent the Negro masses, and Sterling +Brown, combining a similar interest in such poems as “Long Gone” and +“The Odyssey of Big Boy” with a capacity for turning a neat sonnet +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</span>according to the rules, represent differences as unique as those +between Burns and Whitman. Jessie Fauset with Cornell University and +training at the Sorbonne as her intellectual equipment surely justifies +the very subjects and forms of her poems: “Touché,” “La Vie C’est la +Vie,” “Noblesse Oblige,” etc.; while Lewis Alexander, with no known +degree from the University of Tokyo, is equally within the province +of his creative prerogatives in composing Japanese <i>hokkus</i> and +<i>tankas</i>. Although Anne Spencer lives in Lynchburg, Virginia, and +in her biographical note recognizes the Negro as the great American +taboo, I have seen but two poems by her which are even remotely +concerned with this subject; rather does she write with a cool +precision that calls forth comparison with Amy Lowell and the influence +of a rock-bound seacoast. And Lula Lowe Weeden, the youngest poet in +the volume, living in the same Southern city, is too young to realize +that she is colored in an environment calculated to impress her daily +with the knowledge of this pigmentary anomaly.</p> + +<p>There are lights and shades of difference even in their methods +of decrying race injustices, where these peculiar experiences of +Negro life cannot be overlooked. Claude McKay is most exercised, +rebellious, and vituperative to a degree that clouds his lyricism +in many instances, but silhouettes most forcibly his high dudgeon; +while neither Arna Bontemps, at all times cool, calm, and intensely +religious, nor Georgia Douglas Johnson, in many instances bearing up +bravely under comparison with Sara Teasdale, takes advantage of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</span>numerous opportunities offered them for rhymed polemics.</p> + +<p>If dialect is missed in this collection, it is enough to state that the +day of dialect as far as Negro poets are concerned is in the decline. +Added to the fact that these poets are out of contact with this +fast-dying medium, certain sociological considerations and the natural +limitations of dialect for poetic expression militate against its use +even as a <i>tour de force</i>. In a day when artificiality is so +vigorously condemned, the Negro poet would be foolish indeed to turn to +dialect. The majority of present-day poems in dialect are the efforts +of white poets.</p> + +<p>This anthology, by no means offered as <i>the</i> anthology of verse by +Negro poets, is but a prelude, we hope, to that fuller symphony which +Negro poets will in time contribute to the national literature, and +we shall be sadly disappointed if the next few years do not find this +collection entirely outmoded.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The biographical notices carried with these poems have been written by +the poets themselves save in three cases (Dunbar’s having been written +by his wife, the younger Cotter’s by his father, and Lula Weeden’s by +her mother), and if they do not reveal to a curious public all it might +wish to know about the poets, they at least reveal all that the poets +deem necessary and discreet for the public to know.</p> + +<p class="author"> + <span class="smcap">Countee Cullen.</span> +</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Foreword</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_vii">vii</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Paul Laurence Dunbar</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_2">2</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Death Song</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Life</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">After the Quarrel</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Ships that Pass in the Night</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">We Wear the Mask</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Sympathy</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Debt</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_9">9</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Tragedy of Pete</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Way-side Well</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_15">15</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">James Weldon Johnson</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">From the German of Uhland</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Creation</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_19">19</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The White Witch</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_22">22</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">My City</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">William Edward Burghardt Du Bois</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">A Litany of Atlanta</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">William Stanley Braithwaite</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Scintilla</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Rye Bread</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><span class="indent"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">October XXIX, 1795</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_32">32</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Del Cascar</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">James Edward McCall</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The New Negro</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Angelina Weld Grimké</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Hushed by the Hands of Sleep</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Greenness</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_36">36</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiv">[Pg xiv]</span></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Eyes of My Regret</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_37">37</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Grass Fingers</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Surrender</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Ways o’ Men</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Tenebris</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_40">40</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">When the Green Lies Over the Earth</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_41">41</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">A Mona Lisa</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Paradox</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Your Hands</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">I Weep</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">For the Candle Light</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Dusk</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Puppet Player</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">A Winter Twilight</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Anne Spencer</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Neighbors</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">I Have a Friend</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Substitution</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Questing</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Life-long, Poor Browning</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Dunbar</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Innocence</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Creed</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_51">51</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Lines to a Nasturtium</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">At the Carnival</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mary Effie Lee Newsome</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Morning Light</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Pansy</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Sassafras Tea</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_56">56</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Sky Pictures</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Quilt</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Baker’s Boy</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Wild Roses</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Quoits</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">John Frederick Matheus</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Requiem</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Fenton Johnson</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">When I Die</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Puck Goes to Court<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</span></span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Marathon Runner</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Jessie Fauset</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Words! Words!</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Touché</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Noblesse Oblige</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_67">67</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">La Vie C’est la Vie</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_69">69</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Return</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Rencontre</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Fragment</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_70">70</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Alice Dunbar Nelson</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Snow in October</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Sonnet</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">I Sit and Sew</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Georgia Douglas Johnson</span></td> +<td class="tdr"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Service</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Hope</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Suppliant</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Little Son</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Old Black Men</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Lethe</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Proving</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">I Want to Die While You Love Me</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Recessional</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">My Little Dreams</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">What Need Have I for Memory?</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">When I Am Dead</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Dreams of the Dreamer</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_80">80</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Heart of a Woman</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_81">81</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Claude McKay</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">America</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Exhortation: Summer, 1919</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_84">84</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Flame-heart</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Wild Goat</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Russian Cathedral</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Desolate</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Absence</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">My House</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Jean Toomer</span><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Reapers</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Evening Song</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_94">94</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Georgia Dusk</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Song of the Son</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Cotton Song</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Face</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">November Cotton Flower</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Joseph S. Cotter, Jr.</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Rain Music</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Supplication</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">An April Day</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Deserter</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_102">102</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">And What Shall You Say?</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Band of Gideon</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_103">103</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Blanche Taylor Dickinson</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Walls of Jericho</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Poem</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Revelation</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">That Hill</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">To an Icicle</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Four Walls</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_110">110</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Frank Horne</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">On Seeing Two Brown Boys in a Catholic Church</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">To a Persistent Phantom</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Letters Found Near a Suicide</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_114">114</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Nigger</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lewis Alexander</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Negro Woman</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Africa</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_123">123</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Transformation</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Dark Brother</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Tanka I-VIII</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Japanese Hokku</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Day and Night</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Sterling A. Brown</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Odyssey of Big Boy</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_130">130</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvii">[Pg xvii]</span>Maumee Ruth</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Long Gone</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_134">134</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">To a Certain Lady, in Her Garden</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_136">136</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Salutamus</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Challenge</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Return</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_139">139</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Clarissa Scott Delany</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Joy</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Solace</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Interim</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Mask</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Langston Hughes</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">I, Too</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Prayer</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Song for a Dark Girl</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Homesick Blues</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_147">147</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Fantasy in Purple</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Dream Variation</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Negro Speaks of Rivers</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Poem</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_150">150</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Suicide’s Note</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Mother to Son</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">A House in Taos</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Gwendolyn B. Bennett</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Quatrains</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Secret</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Advice</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">To a Dark Girl</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Your Songs</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_157">157</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Fantasy</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Lines Written at the Grave of Alexander Dumas</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Hatred</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Sonnet—1</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Sonnet—2</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_161">161</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Arna Bontemps</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Return</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">A Black Man Talks of Reaping</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td class="tdl"><span class="indent"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xviii">[Pg xviii]</span>To a Young Girl Leaving the Hill Country</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Nocturne at Bethesda</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Length of Moon</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_168">168</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Lancelot</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Gethsemane</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">A Tree Design</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Blight</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_170">170</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Day-breakers</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Close Your Eyes!</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">God Give to Men</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Homing</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_172">172</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Golgotha Is a Mountain</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Albert Rice</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Black Madonna</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_177">177</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Countee Cullen</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Lines to Our Elders</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_179">179</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">I Have a Rendezvous with Life</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_180">180</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Protest</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_181">181</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Yet Do I Marvel</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">To Lovers of Earth: Fair Warning</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">From the Dark Tower</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">To John Keats, Poet, at Springtime</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_184">184</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Four Epitaphs</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Incident</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_187">187</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Donald Jeffrey Hayes</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Inscription</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Auf Wiedersehen</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Night</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Confession</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_190">190</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Nocturne</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_190">190</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">After All</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Jonathan Henderson Brooks</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Resurrection</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Last Quarter Moon of the Dying Year</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Paean</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Gladys May Casely Hayford</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Nativity</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xix">[Pg xix]</span>Rainy Season Love Song</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_198">198</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Serving Girl</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_200">200</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Baby Cobina</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_200">200</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lucy Ariel Williams</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Northboun’</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdr"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">George Leonard Allen</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">To Melody</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Portrait</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Richard Bruce</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Shadow</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_206">206</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Cavalier</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Waring Cuney</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Death Bed</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">A Triviality</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">I Think I See Him There</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Dust</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">No Images</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_212">212</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Radical</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_212">212</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">True Love</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Edward S. Silvera</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">South Street</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_214">214</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Jungle Taste</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_214">214</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Helene Johnson</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">What Do I Care for Morning</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_216">216</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Summer Matures</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Poem</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_218">218</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Fulfillment</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Road</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Bottled</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Magalu</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_223">223</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Wesley Curtwright</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Close of Day</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Lula Lowe Weeden</span></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Me Alone</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Have You Seen It</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xx">[Pg xx]</span>Robin Red Breast</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Stream</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">The Little Dandelion</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="indent">Dance</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"></td> +<td class="tdl"></td> +</tr><tr> + +<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Index</span></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_230">230</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="PAUL_LAURENCE_DUNBAR"> + PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Paul Laurence Dunbar. Born, Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Educated +in public schools, and graduated from Dayton High School, where he +achieved some distinction. Editor of school paper, and noted as a +versifier, from his grammar-school days. Printed his first book, <i>Oak +and Ivy</i>, in 1893.</p> + +<p>Two friends of his early manhood helped most to shape his career, +and to encourage him in his days of struggle—Dr. H. A. Tobey, the +celebrated alienist of Toledo, Ohio, and Frederick Douglass. The former +helped him to bring his second book, <i>Majors and Minors</i>, before +the public; the latter, with whom he was associated in the Negro +Building at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893, was the hero of the +poet’s dreams, the one to whom he dedicated two of his most serious +poems.</p> + +<p>Although Dunbar is remembered largely for his dialect verse, it was +never his intention to concentrate on dialect. His poems in pure +English constitute the greater bulk of his verse, and that to which he +was most passionately devoted. The tragedy of his life was that the +world “turned to praise the jingle in a broken tongue.” His friendship +for Booker Washington and a visit to Tuskegee inspired him to write the +Tuskegee School Song, which is sung to the tune of “Fair Harvard.”</p> + +<p>The famous criticism of <i>Majors and Minors</i> by William Dean +Howells in <i>Harper’s Weekly</i>, June 27, 1897 established Dunbar’s +prestige as an important figure in American literature. From that time +his success was assured.</p> + +<p>He was married to Alice Ruth Moore of New Orleans, a teacher in +Brooklyn, N. Y., in March, 1898.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span></p> + +<p>He was as indefatigable a writer of prose as of poetry; short stories, +novels, criticism, essays and some short plays poured from his pen. His +published works, exclusive of the two volumes of verse mentioned above, +are: <i>Lyrics of Lowly Life</i>, <i>Lyrics of the Hearthside</i>, +<i>Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow</i>; several smaller volumes, +illustrated editions of poems in the preceding volumes; short stories, +<i>Folks from Dixie</i>, <i>The Strength of Gideon</i>; novels, <i>The +Uncalled</i>, <i>The Fanatics</i>, <i>The Love of Landry</i>, <i>The +Sport of the Gods</i>.</p> + +<p>He died in Dayton, Ohio, February 9, 1906.</p> + +<p class="author"> + <i>Alice Dunbar Nelson.</i> +</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES⁠<a id="FNanchor_1_1" href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The magic gold which from the seeker flies;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And make the waking world a world of lies,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That say life’s full of aches and tears and sighs,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">How all the griefs and heartaches we have known</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come up like pois’nous vapors that arise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From some base witch’s caldron, when the crone,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> <div class="verse indent0">To work some potent spell, her magic plies.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The past which held its share of bitter pain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Comes up, is lived and suffered o’er again,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And pangs of vague inexplicable pain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That pay the spirit’s ceaseless enterprise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come thronging through the chambers of the brain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Tends her far course to lands of mystery?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To lands unspeakable—beyond surmise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where shapes unknowable to being spring,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Much wearied with the spirit’s journeying,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">How questioneth the soul that other soul,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But self exposes unto self, a scroll</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Full writ with all life’s acts unwise or wise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In characters indelible and known;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The soul doth view its awful self alone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For kissing all our passions into calm,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world’s cries,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or seek to probe th’ eternal mystery,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At glooms through which our visions cannot see,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">DEATH SONG⁠<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whah de branch’ll go a-singin’ as it pass.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ w’en I’s a-layin’ low,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I kin hyeah it as it go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Singin’, “Sleep, my honey, tek yo’ res’ at las’.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ de watah stan’s so quiet lak an’ cool,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whah de little birds in spring,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ust to come an’ drink an’ sing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ de chillen waded on dey way to school.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Let me settle w’en my shouldahs draps dey load</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Fu’ I t’ink de las’ long res’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes’</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If I’s layin’ ’mong de t’ings I’s allus knowed.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LIFE⁠<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A minute to smile and an hour to weep in,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A pint of joy to a peck of trouble,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And never a laugh but the moans come double:</div> + <div class="verse indent12">And that is life!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A crust and a corner that love makes precious,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the smile to warm and the tears to refresh us:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And joy seems sweeter when cares come after,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter:</div> + <div class="verse indent12">And that is life!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">AFTER THE QUARREL⁠<a id="FNanchor_4_4" href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">So we, who’ve supped the self-same cup,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To-night must lay our friendship by;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your wrath has burned your judgment up,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hot breath has blown the ashes high.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> <div class="verse indent0">You say that you are wronged—ah, well,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I count that friendship poor, at best</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A bauble, a mere bagatelle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That cannot stand so slight a test.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I fain would still have been your friend,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And talked and laughed and loved with you;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But since it must, why, let it end;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The false but dies, ’tis not the true.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So we are favored, you and I,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who only want the living truth.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It was not good to nurse the lie;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis well it died in harmless youth.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I go from you to-night to sleep.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have no fund of tears to weep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For happenings that undeceive.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The days shall come, the days shall go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just as they came and went before.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though you and I are friends no more.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And in the volume of my years,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where all my thoughts and acts shall be,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The page whereon your name appears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall be forever sealed to me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not that I hate you over-much,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis less of hate than love defied;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We’ll go our ways, the world is wide.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT⁠<a id="FNanchor_5_5" href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I look far out into the pregnant night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where I can hear a solemn booming gun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And catch the gleaming of a random light,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My tearful eyes my soul’s deep hurt are glassing;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For I would hail and check that ship of ships.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is there no hope for me? Is there no way</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That I may sight and check that speeding bark</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">WE WEAR THE MASK⁠<a id="FNanchor_6_6" href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We wear the mask that grins and lies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This debt we pay to human guile;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And mouth with myriad subtleties.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Why should the world be over-wise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In counting all our tears and sighs?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nay, let them only see us, while</div> + <div class="verse indent12">We wear the mask.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To thee from tortured souls arise.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We sing, but oh the clay is vile</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath our feet, and long the mile;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But let the world dream otherwise,</div> + <div class="verse indent12">We wear the mask!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SYMPATHY⁠<a id="FNanchor_7_7" href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I know what the caged bird feels, alas!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the river flows like a stream of glass;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know what the caged bird feels!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I know why the caged bird beats his wing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For he must fly back to his perch and cling</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And they pulse again with a keener sting—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I know why he beats his wing!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When he beats his bars and he would be free;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is not a carol of joy or glee,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know why the caged bird sings!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE DEBT⁠<a id="FNanchor_8_8" href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">This is the debt I pay</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just for one riotous day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Years of regret and grief,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sorrow without relief.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Pay it I will to the end—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Until the grave, my friend,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Gives me a true release—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gives me the clasp of peace.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Slight was the thing I bought,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Small was the debt I thought,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Poor was the loan at best—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">God! but the interest!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_1_1" href="#FNanchor_1_1" class="label">[1]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">[2]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">[3]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_4_4" href="#FNanchor_4_4" class="label">[4]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_5_5" href="#FNanchor_5_5" class="label">[5]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_6_6" href="#FNanchor_6_6" class="label">[6]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_7_7" href="#FNanchor_7_7" class="label">[7]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_8_8" href="#FNanchor_8_8" class="label">[8]</a> Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.</p></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JOSEPH_S_COTTER_SR"> + JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR. + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“I was born in Nelson County, Ky., February 2nd, 1861, on a farm owned +by my great grandfather, Daniel Stapp, a tanner. In 1829 he bought +himself and a part of his master’s farm. Later he bought his daughter, +Lucinda, my mother’s mother.</p> + +<p>Martha, my mother, was born on a nearby farm owned by her +English-Indian father, Fleming Vaughan. Prior to my birth she lived in +Bardstown and was a servant at “My Old Kentucky Home.” She took me to +Bardstown soon after my birth and brought me to Louisville in my fourth +week, and here I have lived ever since.</p> + +<p>I attended a private school and could read before my fourth year. +Conditions were such that my attendance at school was very irregular. +I quit school in my eighth year, having completed the third grade, and +did not return until my twenty-second year.</p> + +<p>During this time I picked up rags in the streets and worked in tobacco +factories and brick-yards. My nineteenth year found me a distiller in +one of the largest distilleries in Kentucky. A turn of fortune made me +a teamster. I hauled cotton and tobacco and made up my mind to enter +the prize ring. Another turn of fortune put me into a Louisville public +night school. Here I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>began in the third grade where I left off in my +eighth year.</p> + +<p>At the end of two school sessions of five months each I was promoted to +the high school. I keep this diploma under lock and key, for it is the +only one I have ever received.</p> + +<p>The man who turned my attention from prize-fighting to night school +and then to school teaching, and who discovered my knack for writing +verses, was Dr. W. T. Peyton of Louisville. He was my greatest +benefactor.</p> + +<p>My talent of whatever kind comes from Martha, my mother. She was poet, +story-teller, dramatist and musician. My published works are: <i>A +Rhyming</i>, <i>Links of Friendship</i>, <i>Caleb, the Degenerate</i>, +a poetic drama, <i>A White Song And A Black One</i> and <i>Negro +Tales</i>. My unpublished works are: <i>Life’s Dawn And Dusk</i>, +poems, <i>Caesar Driftwood and Other One Act Plays</i> and <i>My Mother +And Her Family</i>.”</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">THE TRAGEDY OF PETE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There was a man</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Whose name was Pete,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And he was a buck</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From his head to his feet.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He loved a dollar,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">But hated a dime;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And so was poor</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Nine-tenths of the time.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The Judge said “Pete,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">What of your wife?”</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And Pete replied</div> + <div class="verse indent2">“She lost her life.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Pete,” said the Judge,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">“Was it lost in a row?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Tell me quick,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And tell me how.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Pete straightened up</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With a hic and a sigh,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then looked the Judge</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Full in the eye.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“O, Judge, my wife</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Would never go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To a Sunday dance</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Or a movie show.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“But I went, Judge,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Both day and night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And came home broke</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And also tight.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The moon was up,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">My purse was down,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I was the bully</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of the bootleg town.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I was crooning a lilt</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To corn and rye</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> <div class="verse indent0">For the loop in my legs</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the fight in my eye.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I met my wife;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">She was wearing a frown,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And catechising</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Her Sunday gown.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘O Pete, O Pete’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">She cried aloud,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">‘The Devil is falling</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Right out of a cloud.’</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I looked straight up</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And fell flat down</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And a Ford machine</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Pinned my head to the ground.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The Ford moved on,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And my wife was in it;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I was sober,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That very minute.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“For my head was bleeding,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">My heart was a-flutter;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the moonshine within me</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Was tipping the gutter.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The Ford, it faster</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And faster sped</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Till it dipped and swerved</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And my wife was dead.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Two bruised men lay</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In a hospital ward—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One seeking vengeance,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The other the Lord.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“He said to me:</div> + <div class="verse indent2">‘Your wife was drunk,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You are crazy,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And my Ford is junk.’</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I raised my knife</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And drove it in</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At the top of his head</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the point of his chin.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“O Judge, O Judge,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">If the State has a chair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Please bind me in it</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And roast me there.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There was a man</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Whose name was Pete,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And he welcomed death</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From his head to his feet.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE WAY-SIDE WELL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s end beckons me on.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile’s end keeps time with their tread?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile’s end is food for my being.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, it is dry.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells. You may not know they are dry ’til you question their depths.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints miss their crown.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JAMES_WELDON_JOHNSON"> + JAMES WELDON JOHNSON + </h2> +</div> + +<p>James Weldon Johnson was born in Jacksonville, Fla. He graduated from +Atlanta University with the degree of A. B., and he received the +degree of A. M. from the same University in 1904. He spent three years +in graduate work at Columbia University in the City of New York. The +honorary degree of Litt.D. was conferred upon him by Talladega College, +Talladega, Ala., in 1917, and by Howard University in 1923.</p> + +<p>For several years Mr. Johnson was principal of the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>colored high school +at Jacksonville. He was admitted to the Florida bar in 1897, and +practiced law in Jacksonville, until 1901, when he moved to New York to +collaborate with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, in writing for the +light opera stage.</p> + +<p>In 1906, he was appointed United States Consul at Puerto Cabello, +Venezuela, being transferred as Consul to Corinto, Nicaragua, in 1909. +While in Corinto, he looked after the interests of his country during +the stormy days of revolution which resulted in the downfall of Zelaya, +and through the abortive revolution against Diaz.</p> + +<p>His knowledge of Spanish has been put to use in the translation of +a number of Spanish plays. He was the translator for the English +libretto of <i>Goyescas</i>, the Spanish grand opera produced by the +Metropolitan Opera Company in 1915.</p> + +<p>Mr. Johnson was for ten years the Contributing Editor of the New York +<i>Age</i>. He added to his distinction as a newspaper writer by +winning in an editorial contest one of three prizes offered by the +Philadelphia <i>Public Ledger</i> in 1916. His poems have appeared in +the <i>Century</i>, the <i>Independent</i>, the <i>Crisis</i> and other +publications.</p> + +<p>In the spring of 1920, Mr. Johnson was sent by the National Association +for the Advancement of Colored People to the black republic of Haiti, +where he made an investigation of U. S. misrule. The charges which Mr. +Johnson published in <i>The Nation</i>, of New York, upon his return +were taken up by Senator Harding, and as a consequence a Naval Board of +Inquiry was sent to Haiti and a Congressional Investigation promised. +The articles published in <i>The Nation</i> have since been republished +in a pamphlet entitled, “Self-Determining Haiti.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Johnson is Secretary of the National Association for the +Advancement of Colored People, a member of the Board of Directors of +the American Fund for Public <span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>Service (The Garland Fund), and a trustee +of Atlanta University.</p> + +<p>Mr. Johnson’s works include:</p> + +<p> + <i>The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man</i><br> + <i>Fifty Years and Other Poems</i><br> + <i>English Libretto of “Goyescas”</i><br> + <i>The Book of American Negro Poetry</i><br> + <i>The Book of American Negro Spirituals</i><br> + <i>Second Book of Negro Spirituals</i><br> + <i>God’s Trombones (Seven Negro Sermons in Verse)</i> +</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Three students once tarried over the Rhine,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And into Frau Wirthin’s turned to dine.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And where is that pretty daughter of thine?”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“My beer and wine is fresh and clear.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My daughter lies on her funeral bier.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">They softly tipped into the room;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She lay there in the silent gloom.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The first the white cloth gently raised,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And tearfully upon her gazed.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My heart at thy feet would to-day be laid!”</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The second covered her face again.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And turned away with grief and pain.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I have loved thee so many a year.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The third drew back again the veil,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And kissed the lips so cold and pale.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I’ve loved thee always, I love thee to-day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And will love thee, yes, forever and aye!”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The glory of the day was in her face,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The beauty of the night was in her eyes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And over all her loveliness, the grace</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of Morning blushing in the early skies.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And in her voice, the calling of the dove;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like music of a sweet, melodious part.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in her smile, the breaking light of love;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all the gentle virtues in her heart.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And now the glorious day, the beauteous night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The birds that signal to their mates at dawn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE CREATION</p> + +<p class="ph3">(A Negro Sermon)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And God stepped out on space,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And he looked around and said,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“<i>I’m lonely—</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>I’ll make me a world</i>.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And far as the eye of God could see</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Darkness covered everything,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blacker than a hundred midnights</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Down in a cypress swamp.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then God smiled,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the light broke,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the darkness rolled up on one side,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the light stood shining on the other,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God said, “<i>That’s good!</i>”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then God reached out and took the light in His hands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God rolled the light around in His hands</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Until He made the sun;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the light that was left from making the sun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">God gathered it up in a shining ball</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And flung it against the darkness,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Spangling the night with the moon and stars.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then down between</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> <div class="verse indent0">The darkness and the light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He hurled the world;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God said, “<i>That’s good!</i>”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then God himself stepped down—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the sun was on His right hand,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the moon was on His left;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The stars were clustered about His head,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the earth was under His feet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God walked, and where He trod</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His footsteps hollowed the valleys out</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bulged the mountains up.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then He stopped and looked and saw</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That the earth was hot and barren.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So God stepped over to the edge of the world</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And He spat out the seven seas;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the waters above the earth came down,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The cooling waters came down.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then the green grass sprouted,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the little red flowers blossomed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the oak spread out his arms,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the rivers ran down to the sea;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God smiled again,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And the rainbow appeared,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And curled itself around His shoulder.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Over the sea and over the land,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And He said, “<i>Bring forth! Bring forth!</i>”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And quicker than God could drop His hand,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fishes and fowls</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And beasts and birds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Swam the rivers and the seas,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Roamed the forests and the woods,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And split the air with their wings.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God said, “<i>That’s good!</i>”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then God walked around,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God looked around</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On all that He had made.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He looked at His sun,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And He looked at His moon,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And He looked at His little stars;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He looked on His world</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With all its living things,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And God said, “<i>I’m lonely still.</i>”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then God sat down</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the side of a hill where He could think;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">By a deep, wide river He sat down;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With His head in His hands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">God thought and thought,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till He thought, “<i>I’ll make me a man!</i>”</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Up from the bed of the river</div> + <div class="verse indent0">God scooped the clay;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And by the bank of the river</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He kneeled Him down;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And there the great God Almighty</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This Great God,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like a mammy bending over her baby,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Kneeled down in the dust</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Toiling over a lump of clay</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till He shaped it in His own image;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then into it He blew the breath of life,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And man became a living soul.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Amen. Amen.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE WHITE WITCH</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O brothers mine, take care! Take care!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The great white witch rides out to-night.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Trust not your prowess nor your strength,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your only safety lies in flight;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For in her glance is a snare,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in her smile there is a blight.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The great white witch you have not seen?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Like nursery children you have looked</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But no, not so; the witch appears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In all the glowing charms of youth.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Her lips are like carnations, red,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her face like new-born lilies, fair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her eyes like ocean waters, blue,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She moves with subtle grace and air,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all about her head there floats</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The golden glory of her hair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But though she always thus appears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In form of youth and mood of mirth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Unnumbered centuries are hers,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The infant planets saw her birth;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The child of throbbing Life is she,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Twin sister to the greedy earth.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And back behind those smiling lips,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And down within those laughing eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And underneath the soft caress</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of hand and voice and purring sighs,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The shadow of the panther lurks,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The spirit of the vampire lies.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For I have seen the great white witch,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And she has led me to her lair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I have kissed her red, red lips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And cruel face so white and fair;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Around me she has twined her arms,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bound me with her yellow hair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I felt those red lips burn and sear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My body like a living coal;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Obeyed the power of those eyes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As the needle trembles to the pole;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And did not care although I felt</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The strength go ebbing from my soul.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And heard your laughter loud and gay,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in your voices she has caught</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The echo of a far-off day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When man was closer to the earth;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And she has marked you for her prey.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She feels the old Antaean strength</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In you, the great dynamic beat</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of primal passions, and she sees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In you the last besieged retreat</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of love relentless, lusty, fierce,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The great white witch rides out to-night.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O, younger brothers mine, beware;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Look not upon her beauty bright;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For in her glance there is a snare,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in her smile there is a blight.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">MY CITY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When I come down to sleep death’s endless night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The threshold of the unknown dark to cross,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What to me then will be the keenest loss,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When this bright world blurs on my fading sight?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will it be that no more I shall see the trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or smell the flowers or hear the singing birds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or watch the flashing streams or patient herds?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No, I am sure it will be none of these.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But, ah! Manhattan’s sights and sounds, her smells,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her crowds, her throbbing force, the thrill that comes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From being of her a part, her subtile spells,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her shining towers, her avenues, her slums—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O God! the stark, unutterable pity,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To be dead, and never again behold my city!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WILLIAM_EDWARD_BURGHARDT_DU_BOIS"> + WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DU BOIS + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I was born in Massachusetts and educated in her schools, at Fisk +University, at Harvard and Berlin. My first published writings were +news notes in <i>The New York Age</i>. Then I had an article in <i>The +Atlantic Monthly</i>, and in 1896 my doctor’s thesis on the slave trade +was published as my first book. <i>The Souls of Black Folk</i> appeared +in 1903 and one or two other books thereafter. I taught at Wilberforce, +Pennsylvania and Atlanta and became editor of <i>The Crisis</i> in 1910.</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">A LITANY OF ATLANTA⁠<a id="FNanchor_9_9" href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></p> + +<p class="ph3">Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906.</p> + +<p>O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our +ears an-hungered in these fearful days—</p> + +<p><i>Hear us, good Lord!</i></p> + +<p>Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a +mockery in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy heaven, O +God crying:</p> + +<p><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i></p> + +<p>We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but weak and human +men. When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed: +curse them as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they +have done to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home.</p> + +<p><i>Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!</i></p> + +<p>And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed +them in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched +their mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime, +and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity?</p> + +<p><i>Thou knowest, good God!</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p> + +<p>Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence, and +the innocent crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty?</p> + +<p><i>Justice, O Judge of men!</i></p> + +<p>Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers dead? Have not +seers seen in Heaven’s halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark +amidst the black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter +forms of endless dead?</p> + +<p><i>Awake, Thou that sleepest!</i></p> + +<p>Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, thru +blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle +men, of women strong and free—far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy +and chaste prostitution of this shameful speck of dust!</p> + +<p><i>Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">From lust of body and lust of blood</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">From lust of power and lust of gold,</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">From the leagued lying of despot and of brute,</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Great God, deliver us!</i></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin +Murder and Black Hate. Red was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>the midnight; clang, crack and cry of +death and fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when +church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the +greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance!</p> + +<p><i>Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!</i></p> + +<p>In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears +and held our leaping hands, but they—did they not wag their heads and +leer and cry with bloody jaws: <i>Cease from Crime!</i> The word was +mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one.</p> + +<p><i>Turn again our captivity, O Lord!</i></p> + +<p>Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble black +man who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They +told him: <i>Work and Rise</i>. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but +some one told how some one said another did—one whom he had never seen +nor known. Yet for that man’s crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, +his wife naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil.</p> + +<p><i>Hear us, O Heavenly Father!</i></p> + +<p>Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long +shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound +in our hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed +brutes <span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>who do such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn +it in hell forever and forever!</p> + +<p><i>Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!</i></p> + +<p>Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a mobbed +and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy +Throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones +of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very +blood of Thy crucified Christ: <i>What meaneth this?</i> Tell us the +Plan; give us the Sign!</p> + +<p><i>Keep not Thou silence, O God!</i></p> + +<p>Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb +suffering. Surely, Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, +heartless thing?</p> + +<p><i>Ah! Christ of all the Pities!</i></p> + +<p>Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words. Thou art +still the God of our black fathers, and in Thy soul’s soul sit some +soft darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night.</p> + +<p>But whisper—speak—call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to +our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path.</p> + +<p>Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and +without the liar. Whither? To death?</p> + +<p><i>Amen! Welcome dark sleep!</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> + +<p>Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup +pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that +clamoring and clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet +shudder lest we must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and awful +shape.</p> + +<p><i>Selah!</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In yonder East trembles a star.</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thy will, O Lord, be done!</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Kyrie Eleison!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words.</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little children.</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Our voices sink in silence and in night.</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Hear us, good Lord!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In night, O God of a godless land!</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Amen!</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In silence, O Silent God.</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Selah!</i></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_9_9" href="#FNanchor_9_9" class="label">[9]</a> From “Dark Water” by W. E. B. Du Bois, Copyright 1920 by Harcourt, Brace & +Company, Inc.</p></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WILLIAM_STANLEY_BRAITHWAITE"> + WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE + </h2> +</div> + +<p>William Stanley Braithwaite was born in Boston Dec. 6, 1878. He +inherited the incentives and ideals of the intellect from an ancestry +of British gentlemen. He has written verse and prose and was for many +years leading reviewer of books in the <i>Boston Transcript</i>. He has +published twenty volumes, and his yearly anthology of verse establishes +for each year the best poetry printed in the magazines.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">SCINTILLA</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I kissed a kiss in youth</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Upon a dead man’s brow;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And that was long ago,—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And I’m a grown man now.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It’s lain there in the dust,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Thirty years and more;—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My lips that set a light</div> + <div class="verse indent2">At a dead man’s door.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">RYE BREAD</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Father John’s bread was made of rye,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Felicite’s bread was white;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Father John loved the sun noon-high,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Felicite, the moon at night.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Father John drank wine with his bread;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Felicite drank sweet milk;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Father John loved flowers, pungent and red;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Felicite, lilies soft as silk.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Father John’s soul was made of bronze,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That God’s salt was corroding;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Felicite’s soul was a wind that runs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With a blue flame of foreboding.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Between these two was the shadow of a dome</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That cut their lives in twain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But Dionysus led them home</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In a chariot of pain.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">OCTOBER XXIX, 1795</p> + +<p class="ph3">(Keats’ Birthday)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Time sitting on the throne of Memory</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bade all her subject Days the past had known</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Arise and say what thing gave them renown</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Unforgetable, ‘Rising from the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I gave the Genoese his dreams to be;’</div> + <div class="verse indent0">‘I saw the Corsican’s Guards swept down;’</div> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Colonies I made free from a tyrant’s crown;’—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So each Day told its immortality.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And with these blazing triumphs spoke one voice</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Whose wistful speech no vaunting did employ:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">‘I know not if ’twere by Fate’s chance or choice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I hold the lowly birth of an English boy;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I only know he made man’s heart rejoice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Because he played with Beauty for a toy!’</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">DEL CASCAR</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Del Cascar, Del Cascar</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stood upon a flaming star,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stood and let his feet hang down</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till in China the toes turned brown.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And he reached his fingers over</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And caught a Mandarin at prayer,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And tickled his nose in Orion’s hair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The sun went down through crimson bars,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And left his blind face battered with stars—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But the brown toes in China kept</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hot the tears Del Cascar wept.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JAMES_EDWARD_McCALL"> + JAMES EDWARD McCALL + </h2> +</div> + +<p>James Edward McCall was born September 2, 1880 at Montgomery, Ala., +and received his early education in the public schools of that city. +Graduating from the Alabama State Normal in 1900 he entered Howard +University as <span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>a medical student the same year, but some months later +was forced to abandon his medical career, following an attack of +typhoid fever leading to total blindness. Undaunted by this misfortune, +he at once set out to develop his literary talent. During this period +he read and studied much through the eyes of others, also writing many +poems, a number of which were published in Southern dailies, the <i>New +York World</i> and other periodicals. <i>The Montgomery</i> (Alabama) +<i>Advertiser</i> styled him “The Blind Tom of Literature.” One of his +poems, “<i>Meditation</i>,” has been compared to Bryant’s “Thanatopsis.”</p> + +<p>Despite his handicap, McCall determined to acquire a college education. +Accompanied by his sister, he entered Albion College (Michigan) +in 1905, where he was graduated two years later, being the only +sightless student in the college. Returning to his natal city, he +took up journalistic work, for some years being employed as a special +writer for one of the local white dailies, also contributing to other +periodicals, and ultimately publishing at Montgomery a successful race +weekly—<i>The Emancipator</i>.</p> + +<p>This blind writer is ably assisted in his journalistic work by his +wife, to whom he was married in 1914. He and his family moved to +Detroit in 1920. He is city editor and editorial writer for the +<i>Detroit Independent</i>, his editorials in this publication having +been widely read and re-published throughout the country during the +past two years.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">THE NEW NEGRO</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He scans the world with calm and fearless eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Conscious within of powers long since forgot;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At every step, new man-made barriers rise</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> <div class="verse indent2">To bar his progress—but he heeds them not.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He stands erect, though tempests round him crash,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Though thunder bursts and billows surge and roll;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He laughs and forges on, while lightnings flash</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Along the rocky pathway to his goal.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Impassive as a Sphinx, he stares ahead—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Foresees new empires rise and old ones fall;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While caste-mad nations lust for blood to shed,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">He sees God’s finger writing on the wall.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With soul awakened, wise and strong he stands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Holding his destiny within his hands.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ANGELINA_WELD_GRIMKE"> + ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Angelina Weld Grimké was born in Boston, Mass., February 27, 1880. +She was a student at Carleton Academy, Northfield, Minn., Cushing +Academy, Ashburnham, Mass., and Girls’ Latin School, Boston. In 1902 +she was graduated from the Boston Normal School of Gymnastics. In 1902 +she began her career as a teacher in the Armstrong Manual Training +School in Washington, D. C.; since 1916 she has taught in the Dunbar +High School in the same city. She is the author of a three act play +<i>Rachel</i> published in 1920, short stories, and numerous poems.</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">HUSHED BY THE HANDS OF SLEEP</p> + +<p class="ph3">(To Dr. George F. Grant)</p> + +<p class="ph3"><i>I</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Hushed by the hands of Sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">By the beautiful hands of Sleep.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Very gentle and quiet he lies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With a little smile of sweet surprise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just softly hushed at lips and eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Hushed by the hands of Sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">By the beautiful hands of Sleep.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3"><i>II</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Hushed by the hands of Sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">By the beautiful hands of Sleep.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Death leaned down as his eyes grew dim,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And his face, I know, was not strange, not grim,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But oh! it was beautiful to him,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Hushed by the hands of Sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">By the beautiful hands of Sleep.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">GREENNESS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Tell me is there anything lovelier,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Anything more quieting</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Than the green of little blades of grass</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the green of little leaves?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Is not each leaf a cool green hand,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is not each blade of grass a mothering green finger,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hushing the heart that beats and beats and beats?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE EYES OF MY REGRET</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Always at dusk, the same tearless experience,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To the same well-worn rock;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The same tints—rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to a point;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Two eyes unfathomable, soul-searing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Watching, watching—watching me;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will dusk after dusk;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the night, chin on knees,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly miserable,—The eyes of my Regret.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">GRASS FINGERS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Touch me, touch me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Little cool grass fingers,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Elusive, delicate grass fingers.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With your shy brushings,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Touch my face—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My naked arms—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My thighs—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My feet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is there nothing that is kind?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You need not fear me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Soon I shall be too far beneath you,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For you to reach me, even,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With your tiny, timorous toes.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SURRENDER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We ask for peace. We, at the bound</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O life, are weary of the round</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In search of Truth. We know the quest</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is not for us, the vision blest</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We go, with heads bowed to the ground,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let us forget the past unrest,—</div> + <div class="verse indent12">We ask for peace.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Our strainéd ears are deaf,—no sound</div> + <div class="verse indent0">May reach them more; no sight may wound</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And, while we totter down the West,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Unto that last, that open mound,—</div> + <div class="verse indent12">We ask for peace.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE WAYS O’ MEN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their comin’s and their goin’s;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For there’s the grey road,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The straight road</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the grey dust liftin’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With ev’ry step</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the little roads off-flingin’.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Maybe it’s a bit of a sly field</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That crooks a finger to them</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And sends them to the turnin’;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or the round firm bosom</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of a little hill</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Acallin’ to them, them with their heads</div> + <div class="verse indent8">That heavy;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or maybe it’s the black look</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Given out of the tail of the eye;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or a white word, wingin’;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Maybe it’s only the back of a little tot’s neck</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In the sunlight;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Or the red lips of a woman</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Parting slow....</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Sure there’s no tellin’.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">One I saw goin’ towards a white star</div> + <div class="verse indent2">At the edge of a daffydill sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Its lights kissin’ straight into his eyes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Maybe it’s a gold piece</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To be taken from another</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In the dark;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or the neat place between the ribs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Waitin’ for the knife</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That one comes after carryin’ for it.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis few, it is, that goes with the grey road</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The straight road</div> + <div class="verse indent2">All the way,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the grey dust liftin’ at ev’ry step.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With a level look at you, or a crooked</div> + <div class="verse indent2">As they be passin’.</div> + <div class="verse indent18">Pouf!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sure, ’tis so fast they’re goin’,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Does it matter about the turnin’s?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TENEBRIS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There is a tree, by day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That, at night,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Has a shadow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A hand huge and black,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With fingers long and black.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">All through the dark,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Against the white man’s house,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In the little wind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The black hand plucks and plucks</div> + <div class="verse indent2">At the bricks.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The bricks are the color of blood and very small.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Is it a black hand,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Or is it a shadow?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">WHEN THE GREEN LIES OVER THE EARTH</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When the green lies over the earth, my dear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A mantle of witching grace,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the smile and the tear of the young child year</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dimple across its face,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the breath of growing things,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the wooing bird lights on restless feet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And chirrups and trills and sings</div> + <div class="verse indent12">To his lady-love</div> + <div class="verse indent12">In the green above,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Yours is the face that I long to have near,</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Yours is the face, my dear.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But the green is hiding your curls, my dear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your curls so shining and sweet;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the little birds just above your head</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With their voices hushed, my dear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For you have sung and have prayed and have pled</div> + <div class="verse indent12">This many, many a year.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent12">And the blossoms fall,</div> + <div class="verse indent12">On the garden wall,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And drift like snow on the green below.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">But the sharp thorn grows</div> + <div class="verse indent12">On the budding rose,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yours is the face that I long to have near,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yours is the face, my dear.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">A MONA LISA</p> + +<p class="ph3">1.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I should like to creep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the long brown grasses</div> + <div class="verse indent4">That are your lashes;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I should like to poise</div> + <div class="verse indent4">On the very brink</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the leaf-brown pools</div> + <div class="verse indent4">That are your shadowed eyes;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I should like to cleave</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Without sound,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their glimmering waters,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Their unrippled waters,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I should like to sink down</div> + <div class="verse indent4">And down</div> + <div class="verse indent6">And down ...</div> + <div class="verse indent8">And deeply drown.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">2.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Would I be more than a bubble breaking?</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Or an ever-widening circle</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Ceasing at the marge?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Would my white bones</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Be the only white bones</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wavering back and forth, back and forth</div> + <div class="verse indent4">In their depths?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">PARADOX</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When face to face we stand</div> + <div class="verse indent4">And eye to eye,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">How far apart we are——As</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> <div class="verse indent0">far, they say, as God can ever be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From what, they say, is Hell.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But, when we stand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fronting the other,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mile after mile slipping in between,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O, close we are,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As close as is the shadow to the body,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As breath, to life, ............</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As kisses are to love.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">YOUR HANDS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent12">I love your hands:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They are big hands, firm hands, gentle hands;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hair grows on the back near the wrist ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have seen the nails broken and stained</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From hard work.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And yet, when you touch me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I grow small ....... and quiet ........</div> + <div class="verse indent0">....... And happy ..........</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If I might only grow small enough</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To curl up into the hollow of your palm,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your left palm,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Curl up, lie close and cling,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> <div class="verse indent0">So that I might know myself always there,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">....... Even if you forgot.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">I WEEP</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent8">—I weep—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not as the young do noisily,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not as the aged rustily,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">But quietly.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Drop by drop the great tears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Splash upon my hands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And save you saw them shine,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">You would not know</div> + <div class="verse indent6">I wept.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FOR THE CANDLE LIGHT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The sky was blue, so blue that day</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And each daisy white, so white,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O, I knew that no more could rains fall grey</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And night again be night.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I <i>knew</i>, I <i>knew</i>. Well, if night is night,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the grey skies greyly cry,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have in a book for the candle light,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">A daisy dead and dry.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">DUSK</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Twin stars through my purpling pane,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The shriveling husk</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of a yellowing moon on the wane—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the dusk.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE PUPPET PLAYER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Sometimes it seems as though some puppet player</div> + <div class="verse indent2">A clenched claw cupping a craggy chin,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sits just beyond the border of our seeing,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Twitching the strings with slow sardonic grin.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">A WINTER TWILIGHT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A silence slipping around like death,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Inking their crests ’gainst a sky green-gold;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One path that knows where the corn flowers were;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And over it softly leaning down,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ANNE_SPENCER"> + ANNE SPENCER + </h2> +</div> + +<p>From Lynchburg, Va., where she lives, Anne Spencer writes, “Mother +Nature, February, forty-five years ago forced me on the stage that +I, in turn, might assume the rôle of lonely child, happy wife, +perplexed mother—and, so far, a twice resentful grandmother. I have +no academic honors, nor lodge regalia. I am a Christian by intention, +a Methodist by inheritance, and a Baptist by marriage. I write about +some of the things I love. But have no civilized articulation for the +things I hate. I proudly love being a Negro woman—it’s so involved and +interesting. <i>We</i> are the PROBLEM—the great national game of +TABOO.”</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">NEIGHBORS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, you are cruel;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You ask too much;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Offered a hand, a finger-tip,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You must have a soul to clutch.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">I HAVE A FRIEND</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent2">I have a friend</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And my heart from hence</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is closed to friendship,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor the gods’ knees hold but one;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He watches with me thru the long night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And when I call he comes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or when he calls I am there;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> <div class="verse indent0">He does not ask me how beloved</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are my husband and children,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor ever do I require</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Details of life and love</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the grave—his home,—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">We are such friends.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SUBSTITUTION</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Is Life itself but many ways of thought,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Does <i>thinking</i> furl the poets’ pleiades,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is in His slightest convolution wrought</div> + <div class="verse indent0">These mantled worlds and their men-freighted seas?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He thinks—and being comes to ardent things:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The splendor of the day-spent sun, love’s birth,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or dreams a little, while creation swings</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The circle of His mind and Time’s full girth ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As here within this noisy peopled room</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My thought leans forward ... quick! you’re lifted clear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of brick and frame to moonlit garden bloom,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Absurdly easy, now, our walking, dear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Talking, my leaning close to touch your face ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His All-Mind bids us keep this sacred place!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">QUESTING</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Let me learn now where Beauty is;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My day is spent too far toward night</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> <div class="verse indent0">To wander aimlessly and miss her place;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To grope, eyes shut, and fingers touching space.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Her maidens I have known, seen durance beside,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Handmaidens to the Queen, whose duty bids</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Them lie and lure afield their Vestal’s acolyte,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lest a human shake the throne, lest a god should know his might:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nereid, daughter of the Trident, steering in her shell,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Paused in voyage, smile beguiling, tempted and I fell;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Spiteful dryads, sport forsaking, tossing birchen wreathes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Left the Druidic priests they teased so</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the oaken trees, crying, “Ho a mortal! here a believer!”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bound me, she who held the sceptre, stricken by her, ah, deceiver ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But let me learn now where Beauty is;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I was born to know her mysteries,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And needing wisdom I must go in vain:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Being sworn bring to some hither land,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leaf from her brow, light from her torchéd hand.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LIFE-LONG, POOR BROWNING ...</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Life-long, poor Browning never knew Virginia,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or he’d not grieved in Florence for April sallies</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Back to English gardens after Euclid’s linear:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Clipt yews, Pomander Walks, and pleachéd alleys;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Primroses, prim indeed, in quite ordered hedges,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Waterways, soberly, sedately enchanneled,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No thin riotous blade even among the sedges,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All the wild country-side tamely impaneled ...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dead, now, dear Browning, lives on in heaven,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">(Heaven’s Virginia when the year’s at its Spring)</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He’s haunting the byways of wine-aired leaven</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And throating the notes of the wildings on wing;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Here canopied reaches of dogwood and hazel,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beech tree and redbud fine-laced in vines,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fleet clapping rills by lush fern and basil,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Drain blue hills to lowlands scented with pines ...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Think you he meets in this tender green sweetness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shade that was Elizabeth ... immortal completeness!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">DUNBAR</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, how poets sing and die!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Make one song and Heaven takes it;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have one heart and Beauty breaks it;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Chatterton, Shelley, Keats and I—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, how poets sing and die!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">INNOCENCE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She tripped and fell against a star,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A lady we all have known;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just what the villagers lusted for</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To claim her one of their own;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fallen but once the lower felt she,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So turned her face and died,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With never a hounding fool to see</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Twas a star-lance in her side!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">CREED</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">If my garden oak spares one bare ledge</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For a boughed mistletoe to grow and wedge;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all the wild birds this year should know</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I cherish their freedom to come and go;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If a battered worthless dog, masterless, alone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Slinks to my heels, sure of bed and bone;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the boy just moved in, deigns a glance-assay,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Turns his pockets inside out, calls, “Come and play!”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If I should surprise in the eyes of my friend</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That the deed was <i>my</i> favor he’d let me lend;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or hear it repeated from a foe I despise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That I whom he hated was chary of lies;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If a pilgrim stranger, fainting and poor,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Followed an urge and rapped at my door,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And my husband loves me till death puts apart,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Less as flesh unto flesh, more as heart unto heart:</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I may challenge God when we meet That Day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And He dare not be silent or send me away.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LINES TO A NASTURTIUM</p> + +<p class="ph3">(A lover muses)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Into your flaming heart;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then did I hear crisp, crinkled laughter</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As the furies after tore him apart?</div> + <div class="verse indent2">A bird, next, small and humming,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Looked into your startled depths and fled....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Surely, some dread sight, and dafter</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Than human eyes as mine can see,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Set the stricken air waves drumming</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In his flight.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Day-torch, Flame-flower, cool-hot Beauty,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I cannot see, I cannot hear your flutey</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Voice lure your loving swain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But I know one other to whom you are in beauty</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Born in vain:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hair like the setting sun,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her eyes a rising star,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Motions gracious as reeds by Babylon, bar</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All your competing;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hands like, how like, brown lilies sweet,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cloth of gold were fair enough to touch her feet ...</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Ah, how the sense floods at my repeating,</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>As once in her fire-lit heart I felt the furies</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beating, beating.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">AT THE CARNIVAL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I desire a name for you,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nice, as a right glove fits;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For you—who amid the malodorous</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mechanics of this unlovely thing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are darling of spirit and form.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know you—a glance, and what you are</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sits-by-the-fire in my heart.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My Limousine-Lady knows you, or</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why does the slant-envy of her eye mark</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your straight air and radiant inclusive smile?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Guilt pins a fig-leaf; Innocence is its own adorning.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The bull-necked man knows you—this first time</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His itching flesh sees form divine and vibrant health,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And thinks not of his avocation.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I came incuriously—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Set on no diversion save that my mind</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Might safely nurse its brood of misdeeds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the presence of a blind crowd.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The color of life was gray.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Everywhere the setting seemed right</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For my mood!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Here the sausage and garlic booth</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Sent unholy incense skyward;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There a quivering female-thing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gestured assignations, and lied</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To call it dancing;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There, too, were games of chance</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With chances for none;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But oh! the Girl-of-the-Tank, at last!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gleaming Girl, how intimately pure and free</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The gaze you send the crowd,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As though you know the dearth of beauty</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In its sordid life.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We need you—my Limousine-Lady,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The bull-necked man, and I.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Seeing you here brave and water-clean,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leaven for the heavy ones of earth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am swift to feel that what makes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The plodder glad is good; and</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whatever is good is God.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The wonder is that you are here;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have seen the queer in queer places,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But never before a heaven-fed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Naiad of the Carnival-Tank!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Little Diver, Destiny for you,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like as for me, is shod in silence;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Years may seep into your soul</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The bacilli of the usual and the expedient;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I implore Neptune to claim his child to-day!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="MARY_EFFIE_LEE_NEWSOME"> + MARY EFFIE LEE NEWSOME + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Born in Philadelphia January 19, 1885. Daughter of Bishop B. F. and +Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Lee. Reared in Ohio, at Wilberforce. Married 1920, +Rev. Henry Nesby Newsome. Is a lover of the out-of-doors, and of the +beautiful.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">MORNING LIGHT⁠<a id="FNanchor_10_10" href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p> + +<p class="ph3">(The Dew-Drier)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Brother to the firefly—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For as the firefly lights the night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So lights he the morning—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bathed in the dank dews as he goes forth</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through heavy menace and mystery</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of half-waking tropic dawn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Behold a little boy,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A naked black boy,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweeping aside with his slight frame</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Night’s pregnant tears,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And making a morning path to the light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the tropic traveler!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">2</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Bathed in the blood of battle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Treading toward a new morning,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> <div class="verse indent0">May not his race—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Its body long bared to the world’s disdain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Its face schooled to smile for a light to come—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">May not his race, even as the Dew Boy leads,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bear onward the world to a time</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When tolerance, forbearance,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such as reigned in the heart of ONE</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whose heart was gold</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall shape the world for that fresh dawning</div> + <div class="verse indent0">After the dews of blood?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">PANSY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, the blue blue bloom</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the velvet cheek</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the little pansy’s face</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That hides away so still and cool</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In some soft garden place!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The tiger lily’s orange fires,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The red lights from the rose</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Aren’t like the gloom on that blue cheek</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the softest flower that grows!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SASSAFRAS TEA</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The sass’fras tea is red and clear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In my white china cup,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> <div class="verse indent0">So pretty I keep peeping in</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before I drink it up.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I stir it with a silver spoon,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And sometimes I just hold</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A little tea inside the spoon,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like it was lined with gold.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It makes me hungry just to smell</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The nice hot sass’fras tea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And that’s one thing I really like</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That they say’s good for me.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SKY PICTURES</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Sometimes a right white mountain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or great soft polar bear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or lazy little flocks of sheep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Move on in the blue air.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The mountains tear themselves like floss,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The bears all melt away.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The little sheep will drift apart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In such a sudden way.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And then new sheep and mountains come.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">New polar bears appear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And roll and tumble on again</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Up in the skies so clear.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The polar bears would like to get</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where polar bears belong.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> <div class="verse indent0">The mountains try so hard to stand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In one place firm and strong.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The little sheep all want to stop</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And pasture in the sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But never can these things be done,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Although they try and try!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE QUILT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I have the greatest fun at night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When casement windows are all bright.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I make believe each one’s a square</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of some great quilt up in the air.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The blocks of gold have black between,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wherever only night is seen.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It surely makes a mammoth quilt—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With bits of dark and checks of gilt—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To cover up the tired day</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In such a cozy sort of way.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE BAKER’S BOY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The baker’s boy delivers loaves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All up and down our street.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His car is white, his clothes are white,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">White to his very feet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I wonder if he stays that way.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I don’t see how he does all day.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’d like to watch him going home</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When all the loaves are out.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His clothes must look quite different then,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At least I have no doubt.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">WILD ROSES</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What! Roses growing in a meadow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where all the cattle browse?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’d think they’d fear the very shadow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of daddy’s big rough cows.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">QUOITS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In wintertime I have such fun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When I play quoits with father.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I beat him almost every game.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He never seems to bother.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He looks at mother and just smiles.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All this seems strange to me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For when he plays with grown-up folks,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He beats them easily.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_10_10" href="#FNanchor_10_10" class="label">[10]</a> (This poem, published in the CRISIS during the World War, was written after reading +an account of the little African babies who are sent before the explorer into jungle grasses +that tower many feet. The little boys, Dan Crawford says in his THINKING BLACK, +who go out to tread down a path and by chance meet the lurking leopard or hyena are +“Human Brooms,” and are called DEW-DRIERS.)</p></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JOHN_FREDERICK_MATHEUS"> + JOHN FREDERICK MATHEUS + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“I was born September 10, 1887, in Keyser, West Virginia. My early +education was received in Steubenville, Ohio, my mother’s home. I was +graduated from High School in 1905. For one year thereafter I was +bookkeeper and helper in a plumbing shop.</p> + +<p>Proceeding to Cleveland, Ohio, I entered Adelbert College of Western +Reserve University. In 1910 I won the A.B. degree <i>cum laude</i> and +a wife.</p> + +<p>I lived for a time in Philadelphia then began service in the Florida +Agricultural and Mechanical College at Tallahassee, as teacher, first +of Mathematics, then of Latin and English. Later I became Professor of +Romance Languages. During the war and after, I served as the college +auditor and secretary.</p> + +<p>In 1921 I received the M.A. Degree from Columbia University and the +Teachers College Diploma as teacher of French. In 1922 I became +professor of Romance Languages in the West Virginia Collegiate +Institute, Institute, West Virginia.</p> + +<p>In 1924 I traveled in Cuba; in 1925 I studied at the University of +Paris during the summer and toured Switzerland, Italy and southern +France.</p> + +<p>My interest in letters began early in grammar school days. The daily +papers of my home town used to print my puerile efforts when copy ran +low.</p> + +<p>Recently I have been the recipient of prizes and mention in the +three annual <i>Opportunity</i> Literary Contests and in the 1926 +<i>Crisis</i> contest, for short stories, personal sketches, a play and +poems. The 1925 <i>Opportunity</i> prize story ‘Fog’ is published in +the <i>New Negro</i>, edited by Alain Locke.”</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">REQUIEM</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She wears, my beloved, a rose upon her head.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Walk softly angels, lest your gentle tread</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Awake her to the turmoil and the strife,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The dissonance and hates called life.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She sleeps, my beloved, a rose upon her head.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who says she will not hear, that she is dead?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The rose will fade and lose its lovely hue,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But not, my beloved, will fading wither you.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="FENTON_JOHNSON"> + FENTON JOHNSON + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“I came into the world May 7, 1888. No notice was taken of the event +save in immediate circles. I presume the world was too busy or +preoccupied to note it. It happened in Chicago. I went to school and +also college. My scholastic record never attained me any notoriety.</p> + +<p>Taught school one year and repented. Having scribbled since the age of +nine, had some plays produced on the stage of the old Pekin Theatre, +Chicago, at the time I was nineteen. When I was twenty-four my first +volume <i>A Little Dreaming</i> was published. Since then <i>Visions of +the Dusk</i> (1915) and <i>Songs of the Soil</i> (1916) represent my +own collections of my work. Also published a volume of short stories +<i>Tales of Darkest America</i> and a group of essays on American +politics <i>For the Highest Good</i>. Work in poetry appears in the +following anthologies: <i>The New Poetry</i> (Monroe and Henderson), +<i>Victory</i> (Braithwaite), <i>Others</i> (Kreymborg), <i>The +Chicago Anthology</i> (Blanden), <i>Anthology of Magazine Verse</i> +(Braithwaite), <span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span><i>Poetry by American Negroes</i> (White and Jackson), +<i>Negro Poets and their Poetry</i> (Kerlin), <i>Poets of America</i> +(Wood), <i>Book of American Negro Poetry</i> (J. W. Johnson), +<i>Today’s Poetry</i> (Crawford and O’Neil) and others.</p> + +<p>Edited two or three magazines and published one or two of them myself.</p> + +<p>My complete autobiography I promise to the world when I am able to +realize that I have done something.”</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">WHEN I DIE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When I die my song shall be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Crooning of the summer breeze;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When I die my shroud shall be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leaves plucked from the maple trees;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On a couch as green as moss</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And a bed as soft as down,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall sleep and dream my dream</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of a poet’s laurel crown.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When I die my star shall drop</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Singing like a nightingale;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When I die my soul shall rise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where the lyre-strings never fail;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the rose my blood shall lie,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the violet the smile,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the moonbeams thousand strong</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Past my grave each night shall file.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">PUCK GOES TO COURT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I went to court last night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before me firefly light;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And there was Lady Mab,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On cheek a cunning dab</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of rouge the sun sent down,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">King Oberon with crown</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of gold eyed daisy buds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Among potato spuds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was dancing roundelay</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With Lady Chloe and May.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I hid among the flowers</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And spent the wee young hours</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In mixing up the punch;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For I was on a hunch</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That sober men are dull</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And fairy dust will lull</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To rest the plodding mind</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Worn down by life’s thick grind.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The nobles drank the brew</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And called it sweetest dew;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But when I left they lay</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stunned by the light of day</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And Oberon had writ</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Decree that I must flit</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A hundred leagues from court.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">(Alas! Where is there sport?)</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE MARATHON RUNNER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">If I have run my course and seek the pearls</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My Psyche fain would drink at Mermelon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And rest content in wine and nectar cup</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who knows but that the gods have found me whole</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in their stewardship of man would bless</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The sweating lover fickle man once knew?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I know that I might pull the tendon bands</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That hold my soul together—ay, might bend</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Each nerve and muscle spirit fain would keep—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That I might hear the maddening cheers of men</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who when the morrow dawns forget the games</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And cast instead the dice in market place.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But I have found sweeter peace than fame;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in the evening dwell on heights divine,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Betwixt my lips a rose from Cupid’s hands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon my brow the laurel Belvidere</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Entwines from tree beside the throne of Zeus</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And flowing from my speech Athene’s words</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dipped long in wisdom’s fount to heal the soul.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JESSIE_FAUSET"> + JESSIE FAUSET + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“Philadelphia where I was born and educated was once the dear delight +of my heart. But everything in my life has contrived to pull me away +from it. First I travelled <span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>to Cornell University and came back with a +Phi Beta Kappa key and a degree of Bachelor of Arts. That launched me. +Since then I’ve seen England, Scotland, France, Belgium, Switzerland, +Italy, Austria and Algeria. The College de France and the Alliance +Francaise have given me some points on the difference between the +French of Stratford-atte-Bowe and that of Paris. And there was a +pleasant year too at the University of Pennsylvania when I renewed my +acquaintance with Philadelphia and earned a Master’s Degree. So much +for education. As to occupations I’ve taught Latin and French in the +Dunbar High School in Washington, D. C. And served as Literary Editor +on the <i>Crisis</i> in New York.</p> + +<p>Wonderful days those! Now I’m teaching French again in the City of +New York which at present claims my love and allegiance. Like the +French I am fond of dancing, and adore cards and the theatre probably +because I am a minister’s daughter. All my life I have wanted to write +novels and have had one published. But usually, in spite of myself, I +have scribbled poetry.... I should like to see the West Indies, South +America and Tunis and live a long time on the French Riviera. Aside +from this I have few desires. And I find life perpetually enchanting.”</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">WORDS! WORDS!</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">How did it happen that we quarreled?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We two who loved each other so!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Only the moment before we were one,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Using the language that lovers know.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And then of a sudden, a word, a phrase</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That struck at the heart like a poignard’s blow.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And you went berserk, and I saw red,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And love lay between us, bleeding and dead!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dead! When we’d loved each other so!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">How <i>could</i> it happen that we quarreled!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Think of the things we used to say!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“What does it matter, dear, what you do?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Love such as ours has to last for aye!”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">—“Try me! I long to endure your test!”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">—“Love, we shall always love, come what may!”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What are the words the apostle saith?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“In the power of the tongue are Life and Death!”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Think of the things we used to say!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TOUCHÉ</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dear, when we sit in that high, placid room,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Loving” and “doving” as all lovers do,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Laughing and leaning so close in the gloom,—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What is the change that creeps sharp over you?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just as you raise your fine hand to my hair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bringing that glance of mixed wonder and rue?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Black hair,” you murmur, “so lustrous and rare,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beautiful too, like a raven’s smooth wing;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Surely no gold locks were ever more fair.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Why do you say every night that same thing?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Turning your mind to some old constant theme,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Half meditating and half murmuring?</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Tell me, that girl of your young manhood’s dream,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her you loved first in that dim long ago—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Had <i>she</i> blue eyes? Did <i>her</i> hair goldly gleam?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Does <i>she</i> come back to you softly and slow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stepping wraith-wise from the depths of the past?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Quickened and fired by the warmth of our glow?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There I’ve divined it! My wit holds you fast.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nay, no excuses; ’tis little I care.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I knew a lad in my own girlhood’s past,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blue eyes he had and such waving gold hair!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">NOBLESSE OBLIGE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lolotte, who attires my hair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lost her lover. Lolotte weeps;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Trails her hand before her eyes;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hangs her head and mopes and sighs,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mutters of the pangs of hell.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fills the circumambient air</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With her plaints and her despair.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Looks at me:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“May you never know, Mam’selle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Love’s harsh cruelty.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Love’s dart lurks in my heart too,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">None may know the smart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Throbbing underneath my smile.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Burning, pricking all the while</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That I dance and sing and spar,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Juggling words and making quips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To hide the trembling of my lips.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I must laugh</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What time I moan to moon and star</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To help me stand the gaff.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What a silly thing is pride!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lolotte bares her heart.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Heedless that each runner reads</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All her thoughts and all her needs.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What I hide with my soul’s life</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lolotte tells with tear and cry.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blurs her pain with sob and sigh.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Happy Lolotte, she!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I must jest while sorrow’s knife</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stabs in ecstasy.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“If I live, I shall outlive.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Meanwhile I am barred</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From expression of my pain.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let my heart be torn in twain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Only I may know the truth.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Happy Lolotte, blessed she</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who may tell her agony!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On me a seal is set.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Love is lost, and—bitter ruth—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pride is with me yet!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">LA VIE C’EST LA VIE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">On summer afternoons I sit</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Quiescent by you in the park,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And idly watch the sunbeams gild</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And tint the ash-trees’ bark.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Or else I watch the squirrels frisk</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And chaffer in the grassy lane;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all the while I mark your voice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Breaking with love and pain.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I know a woman who would give</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her chance of heaven to take my place;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To see the love-light in your eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The love-glow on your face!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And there’s a man whose lightest word</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Can set my chilly blood afire;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fulfilment of his least behest</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Defines my life’s desire.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But he will none of me. Nor I</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of you. Nor you of her. ’Tis said</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The world is full of jests like these.—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I wish that I were dead.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE RETURN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I that had found the way so smooth</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With gilly-flowers that beck and nod,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now find that same road wild and steep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With need for compass and for rod.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And yet with feet that bleed, I pant</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On blindly,—stumbling back to God!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">RENCONTRE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My heart that was so passionless</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leapt high last night when I saw you!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Within me surged the grief of years</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And whelmed me with its endless rue.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My heart that slept so still, so spent,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Awoke last night,—to break anew!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FRAGMENT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The breath of life imbued those few dim days!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet all we had was this,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A flashing smile, a touch of hands, and once</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A fleeting kiss.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Blank futile death inheres these years between!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Still naught have you and I</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> <div class="verse indent0">But frozen tears, and stifled words, and once</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A sharp caught cry.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ALICE_DUNBAR_NELSON"> + ALICE DUNBAR NELSON + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Born Alice Ruth Moore, in New Orleans, Louisiana. Educated in public +schools and Straight College in New Orleans. Afterwards studied at +University of Pennsylvania, Cornell University and School of Industrial +Art. Married to Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1898. Taught school prior to +marriage in New Orleans, and Brooklyn. One of the founders of the White +Rose Industrial Home in New York, and the Industrial School for Colored +Girls in Delaware. At present teaching in Delaware.</p> + +<p>Published <i>Violets and Other Tales</i>, <i>The Goodness of St. +Rocque</i>, <i>Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence</i>, <i>The Dunbar +Speaker</i>, and <i>The Negro in Louisiana</i>. Contributor to +magazines and newspapers, as short story writer and columnist.</p> + +<p>Married to Robert John Nelson, 1916.</p> +<br> + +<p class="ph3">SNOW IN OCTOBER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bending beneath a weight of early snow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And spread a heavy white chilly afghan</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Over its crested leaves.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Claiming the right to live another fortnight,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Long chill fingers into the brown, streaming hair</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of fleeing October.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The film of snow shrouded the proud redness of the tree,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As premature grief grays the strong head</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of a virile, red-haired man.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SONNET</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I had no thought of violets of late,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In wistful April days, when lovers mate</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And wander through the fields in raptures sweet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The thought of violets meant florists’ shops,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And garish lights, and mincing little fops</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The perfect loveliness that God has made,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And now—unwittingly, you’ve made me dream</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">I SIT AND SEW</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I sit and sew—a useless task it seems,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The panoply of war, the martial tread of men,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But—I must sit and sew.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I sit and sew—my heart aches with desire—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Once men. My soul in pity flings</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Appealing cries, yearning only to go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But—I must sit and sew.—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The little useless seam, the idle patch;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When there they lie in sodden mud and rain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That beckons me—this pretty futile seam,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It stifles me—God, must I sit and sew?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="GEORGIA_DOUGLAS_JOHNSON"> + GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Many years ago a little yellow girl in Atlanta, Georgia, came across +a poem in a current paper that told of a rose struggling to bloom in +a window in New York City. A child tended this flower and her whole +life was wrapt up in its fate. This poem was written by William Stanley +Braithwaite, years before the world knew how marvellous was his mind. +Some one told the reader of these lines that the writer was colored and +straightway she began to walk upward toward him.</p> + +<p>This little girl grew up, went to Atlanta University, Oberlin +Conservatory, taught school, then married Henry Lincoln Johnson, always +looking forward toward the light of the poet Braithwaite.</p> + +<p>Then her husband was appointed Recorder of Deeds under Taft and she was +moved by circumstances to the capital—Washington.</p> + +<p>Dean Kelly Miller at Howard University saw some of her poetic efforts +and was pleased. Stanley Braithwaite was his friend and he directed +her to send something to him at Boston. She did so, and then began a +quickening and a realization that she could do!</p> + +<p>Following this happy event, Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois of the <i>Crisis</i> +brought out two poems from her pen that awakened the interest of +readers.</p> + +<p>At this time Jessie Fauset, the novelist, was teaching French in +Washington and very generously helped her to gather together material +for her first book <i>The Heart of A Woman</i> with an introduction by +William Stanley Braithwaite. This was followed by <i>Bronze</i>, a book +of color with an introduction by W. E. B. Du Bois. Her third attempt in +poetry was <i>An Autumn Love Cycle</i> with an introduction by Alain +Locke, the editor of <i>The New Negro</i>.</p> + +<p>At present she is connected with the Department of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>Labor at +Washington, as Commissioner of Conciliation. At her home there you may +find the young writers gathered together almost any Saturday night +exchanging ideas, reciting new poems or discussing plans for new +creations.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">SERVICE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When we count out our gold at the end of the day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And have filtered the dross that has cumbered the way,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, what were the hold of our treasury then</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Save the love we have shown to the children of men?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">HOPE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The shadows are flecked by the rose sifting through,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The world has its motion, all things pass away,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No night is omnipotent, there must be day.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The oak tarries long in the depth of the seed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But swift is the season of nettle and weed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Abide yet awhile in the mellowing shade,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And rise with the hour for which you were made.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The cycle of seasons, the tidals of man</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Revolve in the orb of an infinite plan,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We move to the rhythm of ages long done,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And each has his hour—to dwell in the sun!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE SUPPLIANT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Long have I beat with timid hands upon life’s leaden door,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Praying the patient, futile prayer my fathers prayed before,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet I remain without the close, unheeded and unheard,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And never to my listening ear is borne the waited word.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Soft o’er the threshold of the years there comes this counsel cool:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The strong demand, contend, prevail; the beggar is a fool!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LITTLE SON</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The very acme of my woe,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The pivot of my pride,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My consolation, and my hope</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Deferred, but not denied.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The substance of my every dream,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The riddle of my plight,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The very world epitomized</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In turmoil and delight.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">OLD BLACK MEN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">They have dreamed as young men dream</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of glory, love and power;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They have hoped as youth will hope</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of life’s sun-minted hour.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">They have seen as others saw</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Their bubbles burst in air,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And they have learned to live it down</div> + <div class="verse indent2">As though they did not care.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LETHE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I do not ask for love, ah! no,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Nor friendship’s happiness,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">These were relinquished long ago;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I search for something less.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I seek a little tranquil bark</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In which to drift at ease</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Awhile, and then quite silently</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To sink in quiet seas.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">PROVING</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Were you a leper bathed in wounds</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And by the world denied;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I’d share your fatal exile</div> + <div class="verse indent2">As a privilege and pride.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You are to me the sun, the moon,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The starlight of my soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The sounding motif of my heart,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The impetus and goal!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">I WANT TO DIE WHILE YOU LOVE ME</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I want to die while you love me,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">While yet you hold me fair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While laughter lies upon my lips</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And lights are in my hair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I want to die while you love me</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And bear to that still bed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your kisses turbulent, unspent</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To warm me when I’m dead.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I want to die while you love me;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Oh, who would care to live</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till love has nothing more to ask</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And nothing more to give?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I want to die while you love me,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And never, never see</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The glory of this perfect day</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Grow dim, or cease to be!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">RECESSIONAL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or yet a flower that has blown and shattered in a day;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For passion sleeps alas and keeps no vigil with the years</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And wakens to no conjuring of orisons or tears.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Consider me a melody that served its simple turn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or but the residue of fire that settles in the urn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For love defies pure reasoning and undeterred flows</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Within, without, the vassal heart—its reasoning who knows?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">MY LITTLE DREAMS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I’m folding up my little dreams</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Within my heart tonight,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And praying I may soon forget</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The torture of their sight.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For time’s deft fingers scroll my brow</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With fell relentless art—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’m folding up my little dreams</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Tonight, within my heart.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">WHAT NEED HAVE I FOR MEMORY?</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What need have I for memory,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When not a single flower</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Has bloomed within life’s desert</div> + <div class="verse indent2">For me, one little hour?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What need have I for memory</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Whose burning eyes have met</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The corse of unborn happiness</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Winding the trail regret?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">WHEN I AM DEAD</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When I am dead, withhold, I pray, your blooming legacy;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the willows did I bide, and they should cover me;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I longed for light and fragrance, and I sought them far and near,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O, it would grieve me utterly, to find them on my bier!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE DREAMS OF THE DREAMER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The dreams of the dreamer</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Are life-drops that pass</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> <div class="verse indent0">The break in the heart</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To the soul’s hour-glass.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The songs of the singer</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Are tones that repeat</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The cry of the heart</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Till it ceases to beat.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE HEART OF A WOMAN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Afar o’er life’s turrets and vales does it roam</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The heart of a woman falls back with the night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And enters some alien cage in its plight,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CLAUDE_McKAY"> + CLAUDE McKAY + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“I was born in a very little village high up in the hills of the parish +of Clarendon in the island of Jamaica. The village was so small it +hadn’t a name like the larger <span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>surrounding villages. But our place was +called Sunny Ville. I was the youngest of eleven.</p> + +<p>My father was a peasant proprietor who owned his land and cultivated +large tracts of coffee, cocoa, bananas and sugar-cane. When I was of +school age I was sent to my brother who was a schoolmaster in a small +town in the North-Western part of the island. He educated me. He was a +free-thinker and I became one, too, so soon as I could think about life +and religion. I was never a child of any church. My brother had a nice +library with books of all sorts and I read such free-thought writers +as Haeckel, Huxley, Matthew Arnold, side by side with Shakespeare and +the great English novelists and poets (excepting Browning) before I +was fourteen. At that time Shakespeare to me was only a wonderful +story-teller. When I was seventeen I won a Jamaica Government Trade +Scholarship and was apprenticed to a cabinet-maker and wheelwright. +I hated trade and quit. When I was nineteen I joined the Jamaica +Constabulary and left it after ten months. An English gentleman who +was collecting Jamaica folklore became interested in my dialect verses +and helped me to publish my first book: <i>Songs of Jamaica</i>, in +1911. I was twenty years old then. The next year I went to the United +States. First to an educational institution for Negroes in the South. +I did not like it, and left there after three months for a college in +a Western state. There I stayed two years. Came to New York. Abandoned +all thought of returning to the West Indies. Lost a few thousand +dollars (a legacy) in high living and bad business. Went to work at +various jobs, porter, houseman, longshoreman, bar-man, railroad club +and hotel waiter. Kept on writing. The <i>Seven Arts Magazine</i> took +two of my poems in 1917. In 1918 Frank Harris published some poems in +<i>Pearson’s</i>. In 1919 <i>The Liberator</i> published some things. +The same year I went to Holland, Belgium and England. Lived in London +over a year. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>Published <i>Spring in New Hampshire</i>. Returned to +America in 1921. Got a job with Max Eastman on the <i>Liberator</i>. +Kept it till Max Eastman left for Europe. Went to Russia in 1922. +<i>Harlem Shadows</i> published 1922 by Harcourt, Brace & Co. Stayed +six months in Moscow and Petrograd. Berlin in 1923. Paris at the end of +1923, where I was very ill for months. Been in France ever since trying +to exist and write.”</p> +<br> + +<p class="ph3">AMERICA⁠<a id="FNanchor_11_11" href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stealing my breath of life, I will confess</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her vigor flows like tides into my blood,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Giving me strength erect against her hate.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I stand within her walls with not a shred</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Darkly I gaze into the days ahead,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And see her might and granite wonders there,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="author"> + <i>Claude McKay</i> +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">EXHORTATION: SUMMER, 1919⁠<a id="FNanchor_12_12" href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the pregnant universe rumbles life’s terrific thunder,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And Earth’s bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder:</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And its golden glory fills the western skies.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave’s disguise,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the foolish, even children, are made wise;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day’s for working;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> <div class="verse indent2">Sons of the seductive night, for your children’s children’s sake,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard’s lurking,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And its golden glory fills the western skies.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave’s disguise,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And the foolish, even children, are made wise;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FLAME-HEART⁠<a id="FNanchor_13_13" href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">So much have I forgotten in ten years,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">So much in ten brief years! I have forgot</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What time the purple apples come to juice,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I have forgot the special, startling season</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of the pimento’s flowering and fruiting;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What time of year the ground doves brown the fields</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have forgotten much, but still remember</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I still recall the honey-fever grass,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">But cannot recollect the high days when</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We rooted them out of the ping-wing path</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I often try to think in what sweet month</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The languid painted ladies used to dapple</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The yellow by-road mazing from the main,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have forgotten—strange—but quite remember</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year</div> + <div class="verse indent2">We cheated school to have our fling at tops?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, some I know! I have embalmed the days,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Even the sacred moments when we played,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We were so happy, happy, I remember,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the poinsettia’s red in warm December.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE WILD GOAT⁠<a id="FNanchor_14_14" href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O you would clothe me in silken frocks</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And house me from the cold,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bind with bright bands my glossy locks,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And buy me chains of gold.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And give me—meekly to do my will—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The hapless sons of men:—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But the wild goat bounding on the barren hill</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Droops in the grassy pen.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">RUSSIAN CATHEDRAL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Bow down my soul in worship very low</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in the holy silences be lost.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bow down before the marble man of woe,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bow down before the singing angel host.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What jewelled glory fills my spirit’s eye!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What golden grandeur moves the depths of me!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The soaring arches lift me up on high</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Taking my breath with their rare symmetry.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Bow down my soul and let the wondrous light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of beauty bathe thee from her lofty throne,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Bow down before the wonder of man’s might.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bow down in worship, humble and alone;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bow lowly down before the sacred sight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of man’s divinity alive in stone.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">DESOLATE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My spirit is a pestilential city,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With misery triumphant everywhere,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Glutted with baffled hopes and lost to pity;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Strange agonies make quiet lodgment there.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Its bursting sewers ooze up from below,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And spread their loathsome substance through its lanes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Flooding all areas with their evil flow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And blocking all the motion of its veins.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Its life is sealed to love or hope or pity;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My spirit is a pestilential city.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Above its walls the air is heavy-wet,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Brooding in fever mood and hanging thick</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Round empty tower and broken minaret,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Settling upon the tree-tops stricken sick</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And withered in its dank contagious breath;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their leaves are shrivelled silver, parched decay,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like wilting creepers trailing underneath</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The chalky yellow of a tropic way.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Round crumbling tower and leaning minaret,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The air hangs fever-filled and heavy-wet.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And all its many fountains no more spurt;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Within the dammed-up tubes they tide and foam</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Around the drifting sludge and silted dirt,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And weep against the soft and liquid loam,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And so the city’s ways are washed no more;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All is neglected and decayed within.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Clean waters beat against its high-walled shore</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In furious force, but cannot enter in.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The suffocated fountains cannot spurt;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They foam and weep against the silted dirt.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the ebon gloom of mounting rocks</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The little pools lie poisonously still.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And birds come to the edge in forlorn flocks,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And utter sudden plaintive notes and shrill,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pecking at fatty grey-green substances;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But never do they dip their bills and drink.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They twitter sad, beneath the mournful trees,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And fretfully flit to and from the brink,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In little dull brown, green-and-purple flocks,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the jet-gloom of the mounting rocks.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And green-eyed moths of curious design,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With gold-black wings and brightly silver-dotted,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On nests of flowers among those rocks recline—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bold, burning blossoms, strangely leopard-spotted,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But breathing deadly poison at the lips.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, every lovely moth that wanders by,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And on the blossoms fatal nectar sips,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is doomed in drooping stupor there to die—All</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> <div class="verse indent0">green-eyed moths of curious design</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That on the fiercely-burning rocks recline.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh cold as death is all the loveliness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That breathes out of the strangeness of the scene,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And sickening like a skeleton’s caress,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With clammy clinging fingers, long and lean.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Above it float a host of yellow flies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Circling in changeless motion in their place,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Snow-thick and mucid in the drooping skies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Swarming across the glassy floor of space.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh cold as death is all the loveliness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And sickening like a skeleton’s caress.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There was a time when, happy with the birds,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The little children clapped their hands and laughed;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And midst the clouds the glad winds heard their words,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And blew down all the merry ways to waft</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their music to the scented fields of flowers.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh sweet were children’s voices in those days,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before the fall of pestilential showers,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That drove them forth from all the city’s ways.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now never, never more their silver words</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will mingle with the golden of the birds.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Gone, gone forever the familiar forms</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To which my spirit once so dearly clung,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And lost away like lovely songs unsung.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet life still lingers, questioningly strange,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Timid and quivering, naked and alone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Biding the cycle of disruptive change,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though all the fond familiar forms are gone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Forever gone, the fond familiar forms,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blown worlds beyond by the destroying storms.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">ABSENCE⁠<a id="FNanchor_15_15" href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Like soft rain-christened sunshine, as fragile as rare gold lace,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your breath, sweet-scented and warm, has kindled my tranquil face.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To stir my fluent blood as never your presence stirred.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">MY HOUSE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For this peculiar tint that paints my house</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Peculiar in an alien atmosphere</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where other houses wear a kindred hue,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have a stirring always very rare</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And romance-making in my ardent blood,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That channels through my body like a flood.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I know the dark delight of being strange,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The penalty of difference in the crowd,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The loneliness of wisdom among fools,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet never have I felt but very proud,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though I have suffered agonies of hell,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of living in my own peculiar cell.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There is an exaltation of man’s life,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His hidden life, that he alone can feel.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The blended fires that heat his veins within,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shaping his metals into finest steel,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are elements from his own native earth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That the wise gods bestowed on him at birth.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh each man’s mind contains an unknown realm</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Walled in from other men however near,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And unimagined in their highest flights</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of comprehension or of vision clear;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A realm where he withdraws to contemplate</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Infinity and his own finite state.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thence he may sometimes catch a god-like glimpse</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of mysteries that seem beyond life’s bar;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thence he may hurl his little shaft at heaven</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bring down accidentally a star,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And drink its foamy dust like sparkling wine</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And echo accents of the laugh divine.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then he may fall into a drunken sleep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And wake up in his same house painted blue</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or white or green or red or brown or black—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His house, his own, whatever be the hue.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But things for him will not be what they seem</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To average men since he has dreamt his dream!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_11_11" href="#FNanchor_11_11" class="label">[11]</a> From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by Harcourt, Brace & +Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_12_12" href="#FNanchor_12_12" class="label">[12]</a> From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by Harcourt, Brace & +Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_13_13" href="#FNanchor_13_13" class="label">[13]</a> From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by Harcourt, Brace & +Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_14_14" href="#FNanchor_14_14" class="label">[14]</a> From “Harlem Shadows” by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by Harcourt, Brace +& Company, Inc.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_15_15" href="#FNanchor_15_15" class="label">[15]</a> From "Harlem Shadows" by Claude McKay, Copyright 1922, by Harcourt, Brace & +Company, Inc.</p></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JEAN_TOOMER"> + JEAN TOOMER + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Jean Toomer was born in Washington, D. C., in 1894. He has since lived +there and in New York, receiving his education mainly in these cities. +Having traveled over a good part of America, experiencing varied +aspects of its life and studying the elements of contemporary problems, +in 1918 in the midst of a general interest in art, he gradually +centered on that of literature. There followed a four year period +devoted entirely to writing, the results of which were first given +printed form by <i>The Double <span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>Dealer</i> of New Orleans. And soon +thereafter, sketches, poems, short stories, and critical reviews began +appearing in <i>Broom</i>, <i>The Crisis</i>, <i>The Dial</i>, <i>The +Liberator</i>, <i>The Little Review</i>, <i>Opportunity</i>, etc. These +brought him in contact with a literary and artistic group in New York +composed of such men as Waldo Frank, Alfred Steiglitz, Paul Rosenfeld, +Gorham B. Munson, and others. With these he has been associated in the +effort to articulate the diverse significances of America. In 1923 his +first book, <i>Cane</i>, was published by Boni and Liveright, New York.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">REAPERS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And start their silent swinging, one by one.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Black horses drive a mower through the weeds,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His belly close to ground. I see the blade,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">EVENING SONG</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Full moon rising on the waters of my heart,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lakes and moon and fires,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cloine tires,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Holding her lips apart.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Promises of slumber leaving shore to charm the moon,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Miracle made vesper-keeps,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cloine sleeps,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I’ll be sleeping soon.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Cloine, curled like the sleepy waters where the moon-waves start,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Radiant, resplendently she gleams,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cloine dreams,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lips pressed against my heart.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">GEORGIA DUSK</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The setting sun, too indolent to hold</div> + <div class="verse indent2">A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Passively darkens for night’s barbecue,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">An orgy for some genius of the South</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their early promise of bumper crop.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Where only chips and stumps are left to show</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The solid proof of former domicile.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Race memories of king and caravan,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Their voices rise ... the pine trees are guitars,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain ...</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Their voices rise ... the chorus of the cane</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is caroling a vesper to the stars ...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O singers, resinous and soft your songs</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Above the sacred whisper of the pines,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SONG OF THE SON</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Pour O pour that parting soul in song,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O pour it in the sawdust glow of night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into the velvet pine-smoke air to-night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And let the valley carry it along.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And let the valley carry it along.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O land and soil, red soil and sweet-gum tree,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So scant of grass, so profligate of pines,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now just before an epoch’s sun declines,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thy son, in time, I have returned to thee,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thy son, I have in time returned to thee.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In time, for though the sun is setting on</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A song-lit race of slaves, it has not set;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though late, O soil, it is not too late yet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To catch thy plaintive soul, leaving, soon gone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leaving, to catch thy plaintive soul soon gone.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O Negro slaves, dark purple ripened plums,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Squeezed, and bursting in the pine-wood air,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Passing, before they stripped the old tree bare</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One plum was saved for me, one seed becomes</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">An everlasting song, a singing tree,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Caroling softly souls of slavery,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What they were, and what they are to me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Caroling softly souls of slavery.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">COTTON SONG</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Come, brother, come. Let’s lift it;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come now, hewit! roll away!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But let’s not wait for it.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">God’s body’s got a soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bodies like to roll the soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Can’t blame God if we don’t roll,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come, brother, roll, roll!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Cotton bales are the fleecy way</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Weary sinner’s bare feet trod,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Softly, softly to the throne of God,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“We ain’t agwine t’ wait until th’ Judgment Day!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Nassur; nassur,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hump.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Eoho, eoho, roll away!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We ain’t agwine t’ wait until th’ Judgment Day!”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">God’s body’s got a soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bodies like to roll the soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Can’t blame God if we don’t roll,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come, brother, roll, roll!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FACE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Hair—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">silver-gray,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">like streams of stars,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Brows—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">recurved canoes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">quivered by the ripples blown by pain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her eyes—mist</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> <div class="verse indent0">of tears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">condensing on the flesh below</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And her channeled muscles</div> + <div class="verse indent0">are cluster grapes of sorrow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">purple in the evening sun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">nearly ripe for worms.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Failed in its function as the autumn rake;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All water from the streams; dead birds were found</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In wells a hundred feet below the ground—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such was the season when the flower bloomed.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Significance. Superstition saw</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Something it had never seen before:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beauty so sudden for that time of year.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JOSEPH_S_COTTER_JR"> + JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR. + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“At Thanksgiving time 1894 Paul Laurence Dunbar, the Negro poet, was a +guest in my house in Louisville, Ky. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span>Here for the first time in the +South he read the Negro dialect poems that afterwards made him famous.</p> + +<p>September 2nd, 1895, my son, the late Joseph S. Cotter, Jr., was +born in the room in which these poems were read. He learned to read +and write from his sister, Florence Olivia, who was two years older. +Before he entered school at the age of six years he had read about +thirty books—these included all the readers in the elementary +schools—1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8th grades and parts of the Bible.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Maria F. Cotter, my wife, and I held both children back. We +refused to allow them to be promoted in several instances. Both were +graduated from the Louisville Central High School under 16; Florence +Olivia won first honor of her class and Joseph the second. He was +graduated June 1911. After a year and a half at Fisk University, +Nashville, Tenn., Florence Olivia wrote us that Joseph had tuberculosis +and must leave school. He returned home and was put under a doctor. +The 16th of the following December, Florence Olivia returned from Fisk +with tuberculosis, and one year from that day she died. It was grieving +over his sister’s death that discovered to Joseph his poetic talent. +He died February 3rd, 1919, leaving his published poems,—<i>The Band +of Gideon</i> and two other unpublished works—one of poems and one of +one-act plays.”</p> + +<p class="author"> + <i>Joseph S. Cotter, Sr.</i> +</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">RAIN MUSIC</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">On the dusty earth-drum</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Beats the falling rain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now a whispered murmur,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Now a louder strain.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Slender, silvery drumsticks.</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On an ancient drum,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beat the mellow music</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Bidding life to come.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Chords of earth awakened,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Notes of greening spring,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Rise and fall triumphant</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Over every thing.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Slender, silvery drumsticks</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Beat the long tattoo—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">God, the Great Musician,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Calling life anew.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SUPPLICATION</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I am so tired and weary,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">So tired of the endless fight,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So weary of waiting the dawn</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And finding endless night.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">That I ask but rest and quiet—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Rest for the days that are gone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And quiet for the little space</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That I must journey on.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">AN APRIL DAY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">On such a day as this I think,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On such a day as this,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When earth and sky and nature’s whole</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Are clad in April’s bliss;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And balmy zephyrs gently waft</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Upon your cheek a kiss;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sufficient is it just to live</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On such a day as this.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE DESERTER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I know not why or whence he came</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Or how he chanced to go;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I only know he brought me love</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And going, left me woe.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I do not ask that he turn back,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Nor seek where he may rove;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For where woe rules can never be</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The dwelling place of love.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For love went out the door of hope,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And on and on has fled;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Caring no more to dwell within</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The house where faith is dead.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">AND WHAT SHALL YOU SAY?</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Brother, come!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And let us go unto our God.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And when we stand before Him</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall say—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Lord, I do not hate,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am hated.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I scourge no one,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am scourged.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I covet no lands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My lands are coveted.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I mock no peoples,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My people are mocked.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And, brother, what shall you say?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE BAND OF GIDEON</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The band of Gideon roam the sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The howling wind is their war-cry,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The thunder’s role is their trump’s peal,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the lightning’s flash their vengeful steel.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Each black cloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Is a fiery steed.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">And they cry aloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">With each strong deed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And men below rear temples high</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And mock their God with reasons why,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And live in arrogance, sin and shame,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And rape their souls for the world’s good name.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Each black cloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Is a fiery steed.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">And they cry aloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">With each strong deed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The band of Gideon roam the sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And view the earth with baleful eye;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In holy wrath they scourge the land</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With earth-quake, storm and burning brand.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Each black cloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Is a fiery steed.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">And they cry aloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">With each strong deed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The lightnings flash and the thunders roll,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And “Lord have mercy on my soul,”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cry men as they fall on the stricken sod,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In agony searching for their God.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Each black cloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Is a fiery steed.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">And they cry aloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">With each strong deed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And men repent and then forget</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That heavenly wrath they ever met,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The band of Gideon yet will come</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And strike their tongues of blasphemy dumb.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Each black cloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">Is a fiery steed.</div> + <div class="verse indent12">And they cry aloud</div> + <div class="verse indent12">With each strong deed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The sword of the Lord and Gideon.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BLANCHE_TAYLOR_DICKINSON"> + BLANCHE TAYLOR DICKINSON + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I was born on a farm near Franklin, Kentucky, April 15, 1896, and +received my education variously ... public schools, Bowling Green +Academy, Simmon’s University and Summer schools.</p> + +<p>No degree. Taught for several years in my native state. I am a lover +of music and divide my time between the typewriter and piano. First +published in <i>Franklin Favorite</i>, later, <i>Louisville Leader</i>, +<i>Chicago Defender</i>, <i>Pittsburgh Courier</i>, <i>Crisis</i>, +<i>Opportunity</i> and <i>Wayfarer</i>. My favorite poets are Countee +Cullen, Georgia Douglas Johnson and Edna St. Vincent Millay; my +favorite past-time, walking along a crowded street. I have a hunch that +I shall become a short story writer and my favorite exertion is trying +to perfect my “technique.”</p> + +<p>At present I am living in Sewickley, Penna.</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE WALLS OF JERICHO</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Jericho is on the inside</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the things the world likes best;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“We want in,” the dark ones cried,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“We will love it as the rest.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Let me learn,” the dark ones say.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They have learned that Faith must do</div> + <div class="verse indent0">More than meditate and pray</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That a boulder may fall through</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Making one large man size entrance</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into wondrous Jericho.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They have learned: forget the distance,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Count no steps, nor stop to blow.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Jericho still has her high wall,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Futile barrier of Power....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Echoed with the dark ones’ footfall</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Marching around her every hour;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Knowledge strapped down like a knapsack</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not cumbersome, and money</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not too much to strain the back....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dark ones seeking milk and honey.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Over in the city staring</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Up at us along the wall</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are the fat ones, trembling, swearing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There is no room there for us all!</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> <div class="verse indent0">But there’ve been too many rounds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Made to give the trip up here.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shout for joy ... hear how it sounds....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The very walls echo with cheer!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">POEM</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, I know what happiness is...!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is a timid little fawn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Creeping softly up to me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For one caress, then gone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before I’m through with it ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Away, like dark from dawn!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Well I know what happiness is...!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is the break of day that wears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A shining dew decked diadem ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An aftermath of tears.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fawn and dawn, emblems of joy ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’ve played with them for years,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And always they will slip away</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into the brush of another day.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">REVELATION</p> + +<p class="ph3">1</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She walked along the crowded street</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Forgetting all but that she</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Was walking as the other girls</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And dressed as carefully.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The windows of the stores were frilled</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To lure femininity,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To empty little pocketbooks</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And assuage queen vanity.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And so my walker liked a dress</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of silver and of gold,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Draped on a bisque mannequin</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So blond and slim and bold.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She took the precious metal home</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And waved her soft black hair;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Powder, rouge and lipstick made</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her very neat and fair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She slipped the dress on carefully,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her vain dream fell away....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The mirror showed a brownskin girl</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She hadn’t seen all day!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">2</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“You have classic features,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Something like Cleopatra.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Eyes like whirlpools</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And as dangerous....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Weeping willow eyelashes</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Shade the mighty depth</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of your eyes. Your lips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are danger signals</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which a fool like me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will not regard....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But go dashing past them</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To gain a kiss ... or Death.”</div> + <div class="verse indent10">That is what he said to me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I filled with a sweet and vain regret</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That Beauty, the stranger, and I had met.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His praise was heat to drink me dry.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So I found a stream, and with a sigh</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I stooped to drink ... ah, to see</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The cruel water reflecting me!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dark-eyed, thick-lipped, harsh, short hair ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But Lucifer saw himself, too, fair.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THAT HILL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It crawled away from ’neath my feet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And left me standing there;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A little at a time, went up</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An atmospheric stair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I couldn’t go for watching it,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To see where it would stop;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A tree sprang out and waved to me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When it had reached the top.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The tree kept nodding friendly like,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beckoning me to follow;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I went crawling up and up,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like it did from the hollow.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then I saw why the thing would go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A-soaring from the dell—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Twas nearing Heaven every bound,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And fleeing fast from Hell!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TO AN ICICLE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Chilled into a serenity</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As rigid as your pose</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You linger trustingly,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But a gutter waits for you.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your elegance does not secure</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You favors with the sun.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He is not one to pity fragileness.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He thinks all cheeks should burn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And feel how tears can run.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FOUR WALLS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Four great walls have hemmed me in.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Four strong, high walls:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Right and wrong,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall and shan’t.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> <div class="verse indent0">The mighty pillars tremble when</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My conscience palls</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And sings its song—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I can, I can’t.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">If for a moment Samson’s strength</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Were given me I’d shove</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Them away from where I stand;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Free, I know I’d love</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To ramble soul and all,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And never dread to strike a wall.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Again, I wonder would that be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such a happy state for me ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The going, being, doing, sham—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And never knowing where I am.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I might not love freedom at all;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My tired wings might crave a wall—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Four walls to rise and pen me in</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This conscious world with guarded men.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="FRANK_HORNE"> + FRANK HORNE + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“Born in New York City, August 18, 1899, I have lived all but about +six years in Brooklyn. I studied at the College of the City of New +York, and was guilty there of my first sonnet; but am ever so much more +proud of my varsity letters won on the track—once ran a “10 flat” +hundred and a 51 sec. quarter. Went to the Northern Illinois College +of Ophthalmology—took degree “Doctor of Optometry.” Have practiced +in Chicago and New York. At present <span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>writing, am doing some teaching +and publicity work at the Fort Valley High and Industrial School, +Georgia, while recovering from a mean illness. Have had a hankering +to write as long as I can remember, but Charles Johnson, Editor of +<i>Opportunity</i> and a certain Gwendolyn Bennett are responsible for +my trying it openly. My “published works” are limited to the indulgence +of <i>Opportunity</i>, <i>The Crisis</i>, and <i>Braithwaite’s +Anthology</i>. It is the perversity of my nature to crave the ability +to write good prose, and yet my attempts at poetry are the only things +to which any notice is given.”</p> +<br> + +<p class="ph3">ON SEEING TWO BROWN BOYS IN A CATHOLIC CHURCH</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It is fitting that you be here</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Little brown boys</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With Christ-like eyes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And curling hair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Look you on yon crucifix</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where He hangs nailed and pierced</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With head hung low</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And eyes a’blind with blood that drips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From a thorny crown ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Look you well,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You shall know this thing.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Judas’ kiss will burn your cheek</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And you shall be denied</div> + <div class="verse indent0">By your Peter—And</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Gethsemane ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You shall know full well</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gethsemane ...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You, too, will suffer under Pontius Pilate</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And feel the rugged cut of rough hewn cross</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon your surging shoulder—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They will spit in your face</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And laugh ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They will nail you up twixt thieves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And gamble for your little garments.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And in this you will exceed God</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For on this earth</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You shall know Hell—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O little brown boys</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With Christ-like eyes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And curling hair</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is fitting that you be here.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TO A PERSISTENT PHANTOM</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I buried you deeper last night</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You with your tears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And your tangled hair</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You with your lips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That kissed so fair</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I buried you deeper last night.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I buried you deeper last night</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With fuller breasts</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And stronger arms</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With softer lips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And newer charms</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I buried you deeper last night.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Deeper ...... aye, deeper</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And again tonight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till that gay spirit</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That once was you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will tear its soul</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In climbing through ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Deeper ...... aye, deeper</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I buried you deeper last night.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LETTERS FOUND NEAR A SUICIDE</p> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To all of you</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My little stone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sinks quickly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into the bosom of this deep, dark pool</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of oblivion ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have troubled its breast but little</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet those far shores</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That knew me not</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will feel the fleeting, furtive kiss</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of my tiny concentric ripples....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span></p> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To Lewellyn</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You have borne full well</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The burden of my friendship—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have drunk deep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At your crystal pool,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in return</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have polluted its waters</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the bile of my hatred.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have flooded your soul</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With tortuous thoughts,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have played Iscariot</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To your Pythias....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To Mother</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I came</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the blinding sweep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of ecstatic pain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the throbbing pulse</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of aching space—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the eons between</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I piled upon you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pain on pain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ache on ache</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And yet as I go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall know</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That you will grieve</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And want me back....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To B——</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You have freed me—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In opening wide the doors</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of flesh</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You have freed me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the binding leash.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have climbed the heights</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of white disaster</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My body screaming</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the silver crash of passion ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before you gave yourself</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To him</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I had chained myself</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For you.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But when at last</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You lowered your proud flag</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In surrender complete</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You gave me too, as hostage—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I have wept my joy</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At the dawn-tipped shrine</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of many breasts.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To Jean</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When you poured your love</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like molten flame</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into the throbbing mold</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of her pulsing veins</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leaving her blood a river of fire</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And her arteries channels of light,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I hated you ...</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Hated with that primal hate</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That has its wells</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the flesh of me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the flesh of you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the flesh of her</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I hated you—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hated with envy</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your mastery of her being ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With one fleshy gesture</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You pricked the iridescent bubble</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of my dreams</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And so to make</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your conquest more sweet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I tell you now</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That I hated you.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To Catalina</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Love thy piano, Oh girl,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It will give you back</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Note for note</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The harmonies of your soul.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It will sing back to you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The high songs of your heart.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It will give</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As well as take....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To Mariette</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I sought consolation</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the sorrow of your eyes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You sought reguerdon</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> <div class="verse indent0">In the crying of my heart ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We found that shattered dreamers</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Can be bitter hosts....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To</i> ——</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You call it</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Death of the Spirit</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I call it Life ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The vigor of vibration,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The muffled knocks,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The silver sheen of passion’s flood,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The ecstasy of pain ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You call it</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Death of the Spirit</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I call it Life.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To Telie</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You have made my voice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A rippling laugh</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But my heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A crying thing ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Tis better thus:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A fleeting kiss</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And then,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The dark....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To “Chick”</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh Achilles of the moleskins</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the gridiron</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Do not wonder</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Nor doubt that this is I</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That lies so calmly here—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This is the same exultant beast</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That so joyously</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ran the ball with you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In those far flung days of abandon.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You remember how recklessly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We revelled in the heat and the dust</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the swirl of conflict?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You remember they called us</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The Terrible Two?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And you remember</div> + <div class="verse indent0">After we had battered our heads</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And our bodies</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Against the stonewall of their defense,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You remember the signal I would call</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And how you would look at me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In faith and admiration</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And say “Let’s go,” ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">How the lines would clash</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And strain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And how I would slip through</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fighting and squirming</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Over the line</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To victory.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You remember, Chick? ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When you gaze at me here</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let that same light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of faith and admiration</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shine in your eyes</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> <div class="verse indent0">For I have battered the stark stonewall</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before me ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have kept faith with you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And now</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have called my signal,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Found my opening</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And slipped through</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fighting and squirming</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Over the line</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To victory....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p><i>To Wanda</i></p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To you, so far away</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So cold and aloof,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To you, who knew me so well,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This is my last Grand Gesture</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This is my last Great Effect</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And as I go winging</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the black doors of eternity</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is that thin sound I hear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your applause?...</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">NIGGER</p> + +<p class="ph3">A Chant for Children</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Little Black boy</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Chased down the street—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Nigger, nigger never die</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Black face an’ shiney eye,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent6">Hannibal ... Hannibal</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Bangin’ thru the Alps</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Licked the proud Romans,</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Ran home with their scalps—</div> + <div class="verse indent6">“Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent6">Othello ... black man</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Mighty in war</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Listened to Iago</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Called his wife a whore—</div> + <div class="verse indent6">“Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent6">Crispus ... Attucks</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Bullets in his chest</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Red blood of freedom</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Runnin’ down his vest</div> + <div class="verse indent6">“Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent6">Toussant ... Toussant</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Made the French flee</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Fought like a demon</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Set his people free—</div> + <div class="verse indent6">“Nigger ... nigger ... nigger....”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent6">Jesus ... Jesus</div> + <div class="verse indent6">Son of the Lord</div> + <div class="verse indent6">—Spit in his face</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> <div class="verse indent6">—Nail him on a board</div> + <div class="verse indent6">“Nigger ... nigger ... nigger ...”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Little Black boy</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Runs down the street—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Nigger, nigger never die</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Black face an’ shiney eye,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nigger ... nigger ... nigger ...”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LEWIS_ALEXANDER"> + LEWIS ALEXANDER + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Lewis Alexander was born July 4, 1900, at Washington, D. C. He was +educated in the public schools of Washington and at Howard University +where he was a member of the Howard Players. He has also studied at +the University of Pennsylvania. He was a member of the Ethiopian Art +Theatre for the season 1922-1923 playing in <i>Salome</i> and <i>The +Comedy of Errors</i> on Broadway. As the result of a recent tour +of North and South Carolina he edited in May 1927 the Negro Number +of the <i>Carolina Magazine</i>. He has been writing poetry since +1917, specializing in Japanese forms. Two Little Theatre groups in +Washington, The Ira Aldridge Players of the Grover Cleveland School and +the Randall Community Center Players have been under his direction.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">NEGRO WOMAN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The sky hangs heavy tonight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like the hair of a Negro woman.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The scars of the moon are curved</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Like the wrinkles on the brow of a Negro woman.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The stars twinkle tonight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like the glaze in a Negro woman’s eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Drinking the tears set flowing by an aging hurt</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gnawing at her heart.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The earth trembles tonight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like the quiver of a Negro woman’s eye-lids cupping tears.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">AFRICA</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thou art not dead, although the spoiler’s hand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lies heavy as death upon thee; though the wrath</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of its accursed might is in thy path</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And has usurped thy children of their land;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though yet the scourges of a monstrous band</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Roam on thy ruined fields, thy trampled lanes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thy ravaged homes and desolated fanes;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thou art not dead, but sleeping,—Motherland.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A mighty country, valorous and free,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thou shalt outlive this terror and this pain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall call thy scattered children back to thee,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Strong with the memory of their brothers slain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And rise from out thy charnel house to be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thine own immortal, brilliant self again!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">TRANSFORMATION</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I return the bitterness,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Which you gave to me;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When I wanted loveliness</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Tantalant and free.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I return the bitterness</div> + <div class="verse indent2">It is washed by tears;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now it is a loveliness</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Garnished through the years.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I return it loveliness,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Having made it so;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For I wore the bitterness</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From it long ago.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE DARK BROTHER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Lo, I am black but I am comely too,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Black as the night, black as the deep dark caves.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am the scion of a race of slaves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who helped to build a nation strong that you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I may stand within the world’s full view,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fearless and firm as dreadnoughts on rough waves;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Holding a banner high whose floating braves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The opposition of the tried untrue.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Casting an eye of love upon my face,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Seeing a newer light within my eyes,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> <div class="verse indent0">A rarer beauty in your brother race</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will merge upon your visioning fullwise.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though I am black my heart through love is pure,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And you through love my blackness shall endure!”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TANKA I-VIII</p> + +<p class="ph3">I</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Could I but retrace</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The winding stairs fate built me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They fell from my feet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now I stand on the high round.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Down beneath height above depth—</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">II</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the eyes of life</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I looked in at my own heart:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A long furrowed field</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Grown cement waiting for seed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Baking in desolation.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">III</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Drink in moods of joy!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why should the sky be lonely?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Neither sun nor moon—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">How my heart is shy of night</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like Autumn’s leaf brown pendants.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">IV</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Cold against the sky</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The blue jays cried at dawning.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The larks where are they?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Heavily upon the air</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My ears tuned in to listen.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">V</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">So this is the reed?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The very pipes for singing—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Life plays me new songs.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wistfully from out the dawn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The crows broke across the sky!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">VI</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And now Spring has come</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blossoming up my garden.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I alone unchanged.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Moving in my house of Autumn.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One leaf alone saves a tree.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">VII</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">By the pool of life</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Willows are drooping tonight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I can see no stars.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What dances in the water?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O my clouds dripping with tears.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">VIII</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Could I hear your voice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O but this silence is sweet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Words mar all beauty.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Turn then into your own heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And pluck the roots from the soil—</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">JAPANESE HOKKU</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O apple blossoms</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give me your words of silence,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yes, your charming speech.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">If you would know me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Do not regard this display;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mingle with my speech.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Why sit like the sphinx,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Watching the caravan pass?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Join in the parade.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What if the wind blows?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What if the leaves are scattered,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Now that they are dead?</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">While trimming the plants</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I saw some flowers drooping.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am a flower.</div> + <hr class="tb"> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">This is but my robe,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His Majesty gave to me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Garments will decay.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">On the flowering twig,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lo! the robin is singing.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It must be spring.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Looking up the hill</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The road was long before me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This road is longer.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Death is not cruel</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From what I have seen of life;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nothing else remains.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Life is history.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Turn not away from the book.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Write on every page!</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">If you had not sung</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then what would I imitate,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Happy nightingale?</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Sitting by the pool,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I looked in and saw my face.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O that I were blind!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">DAY AND NIGHT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The day is a Negro</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Yelling out of breath.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The night is a Negro</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Laughing up to death.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The day is a jazz band</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Blasting loud and wild.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The night is a jazz band</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Moaning Blues songs, child.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The day is the sunshine</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Undressed in the street.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The night is the sunshine</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Dressed from head to feet.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I am like a rainbow</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Arched across the way.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yes, I am a rainbow</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Being night nor day.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="STERLING_A_BROWN"> + STERLING A. BROWN + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I was born in Washington, D. C., the first of May, 1901. I received +primary and secondary education in the Public Schools of that city, +and on a farm near Laurel, Md.; entered Williams College in 1918, was +elected to Phi Beta Kappa in 1921, graduated in 1922; and received my +Master of Arts Degree at Harvard in 1923. Since that <span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>time I have been +seeking a more liberal education teaching school. I have been inflicted +on unsuspecting, helpless students; teaching diverse things at Manassas +Summer School in Virginia, Rhetoric and Literature at Virginia Seminary +and College, Lynchburg, Va., and Literature at Lincoln University, +Jefferson City, Mo.</p> + +<p>From early years I have <i>lisped in numbers</i> but the numbers +seem improper fractions. I have always been interested in people, +particularly and generally, and in books. The list runs from Homer to +Housman.</p> + +<p>Except for an essay on Roland Hayes submitted to an <i>Opportunity</i> +contest, and occasional poems and reviews, I have published nothing of +the voluminous works cluttering my desk.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">ODYSSEY OF BIG BOY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lemme be wid Casey Jones,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Lemme be wid Stagolee,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lemme be wid such like men</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When Death takes hol’ on me,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">When Death takes hol’ on me....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Done skinned as a boy in Kentucky hills,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Druv steel dere as a man,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Done stripped tobacco in Virginia fiels’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Alongst de River Dan,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Alongst de River Dan;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Done mined de coal in West Virginia</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Liked dat job jes’ fine</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Till a load o’ slate curved roun’ my head</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Won’t work in no mo’ mine,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Won’t work in no mo’ mine;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Done shocked de corn in Marylan,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In Georgia done cut cane,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Done planted rice in South Caline,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">But won’t do dat again</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Do dat no mo’ again.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Been roustabout in Memphis,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Dockhand in Baltimore,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Done smashed up freight on Norfolk wharves</div> + <div class="verse indent2">A fust class stevedore,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">A fust class stevedore....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Done slung hash yonder in de North</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On de ole Fall River Line</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Done busted suds in li’l New Yawk</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Which ain’t no work o’ mine—</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Lawd, ain’t no work o’ mine;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Done worked and loafed on such like jobs</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Seen what dey is to see</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Done had my time with a pint on my hip</div> + <div class="verse indent2">An’ a sweet gal on my knee</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Sweet mommer on my knee:</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Had stovepipe blonde in Macon</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Yaller gal in Marylan</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> <div class="verse indent0">In Richmond had a choklit brown</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Called me huh monkey man—</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Huh big fool monkey man.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Had two fair browns in Arkansaw</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And three in Tennessee</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Had Creole gal in New Orleans</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Sho Gawd did two time me—</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Lawd two time, fo’ time me—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But best gal what I evah had</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Done put it over dem</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A gal in Southwest Washington</div> + <div class="verse indent2">At Four’n half and M—</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Four’n half and M....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Done took my livin’ as it came</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Done grabbed my joy, done risked my life</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Train done caught me on de trestle</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Man done caught me wid his wife</div> + <div class="verse indent4">His doggone purty wife ...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I done had my women,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I done had my fun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cain’t do much complainin’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When my jag is done,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Lawd, Lawd, my jag is done.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ all dat Big Boy axes</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When time comes fo’ to go</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Lemme be wid John Henry, steel drivin’ man</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Lemme be wid ole Jazzbo;</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Lemme be wid ole Jazzbo....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">MAUMEE RUTH</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Might as well bury her</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And bury her deep,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Might as well put her</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Where she can sleep.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Might as well lay her</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Out in her shiny black;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And for the love of God</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Not wish her back.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Maum Sal may miss her</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Maum Sal, she only</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With no one now to scoff</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Sal may be lonely....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Nobody else there is</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Who will be caring</div> + <div class="verse indent0">How rocky was the road</div> + <div class="verse indent2">For her wayfaring;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Nobody be heeding in</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Cabin, or town</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That she is lying here</div> + <div class="verse indent2">In her best gown.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Boy that she suckled</div> + <div class="verse indent2">How should he know</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hiding in city holes</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Sniffing the ‘snow’?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And how should the news</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Pierce Harlem’s din</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To reach her baby gal,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Sodden with gin?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To cut her withered heart</div> + <div class="verse indent2">They cannot come again,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Preach her the lies about</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Jordan and then</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Might as well drop her</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Deep in the ground</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Might as well pray for her</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That she sleep sound....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LONG GONE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I laks yo’ kin’ of lovin’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Ain’t never caught you wrong</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But it jes ain’ nachal</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Fo’ to stay here long;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It jes ain’ nachal</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Fo’ a railroad man</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> <div class="verse indent0">With a itch fo’ travellin’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">He cain’t understan’....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I looks at de rails</div> + <div class="verse indent2">An’ I looks at de ties,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An I hears an ole freight</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Puffin’ up de rise,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ at nights on my pallet</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When all is still</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I listens fo’ de empties</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Bumpin’ up de hill;</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When I oughta be quiet</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I is got a itch</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fo’ to hear de whistle blow</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Fo’ de crossin’, or de switch,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ I knows de time’s a nearin’</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When I got to ride</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though its homelike and happy</div> + <div class="verse indent2">At yo’ side.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You is done all you could do</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To make me stay</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Tain’t no fault of yours I’se leavin’—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I’se jes dataway.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I is got to see some people</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I ain’ never seen</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Gotta highball thu some country</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Whah I never been....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I don’t know which way I’m travellin’—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Far or near,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All I knows fo’ certain is</div> + <div class="verse indent2">I cain’t stay here.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ain’t no call at all, sweet woman</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Fo’ to carry on,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jes my name and jes my habit</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To be Long Gone....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TO A CERTAIN LADY, IN HER GARDEN</p> + +<p class="ph3">(<i>A. S.</i>)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Lady, my lady, come from out the garden,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Clayfingered, dirtysmocked, and in my time</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I too shall learn the quietness of Arden,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Knowledge so long a stranger to my rhyme.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What were more fitting than your springtime task?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Here, close engirdled by your vines and flowers</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Surely there is no other grace to ask,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No better cloister from the bickering hours.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A step beyond, the dingy streets begin</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With all their farce, and silly tragedy—But</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> <div class="verse indent0">here, unmindful of the futile din</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You grow your flowers, far wiser certainly,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You and your garden sum the same to me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A sense of strange and momentary pleasure,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And beauty snatched—oh, fragmentarily</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Perhaps, yet who can boast of other seizure?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, you have somehow robbed, I know not how</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The secret of the loveliness of these</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whom you have served so long. Oh, shameless, now</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You flaunt the winnings of your thieveries.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thus, I exclaim against you, profiteer....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For purpled evenings spent in pleasing toil,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Should you have gained so easily the dear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Capricious largesse of the miser soil?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Colorful living in a world grown dull,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Quiet sufficiency in weakling days,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Delicate happiness, more beautiful</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For lighting up belittered, grimy ways—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Surely I think I shall remember this,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You in your old, rough dress, bedaubed with clay,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your smudgy face parading happiness,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Life’s puzzle solved. Perhaps, in turn, you may.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">One time, while clipping bushes, tending vines,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">(Making your brave, sly mock at dastard days,)</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Laugh gently at these trivial, truthful lines—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And that will be sufficient for my praise.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SALUTAMUS</p> + +<p class="ph3">(O Gentlemen the time of Life is short—Henry IV)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The bitterness of days like these we know;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Much, much we know, yet cannot understand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What was our crime that such a searing brand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not of our choosing, keeps us hated so.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Despair and disappointment only grow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whatever seeds are planted from our hand,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What though some roads wind through a gladsome land?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is a gloomy path that we must go.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And yet we know relief will come some day</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For these seared breasts; and lads as brave again</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will plant and find a fairer crop than ours.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It must be due our hearts, our minds, our powers;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">These are the beacons to blaze out the way.</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>We must plunge onward; onward, gentlemen</i>....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">CHALLENGE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I said, in drunken pride of youth and you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That mischief-making Time would never dare</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Play his ill-humoured tricks upon us two,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Strange and defiant lovers that we were.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I said that even Death, Highwayman Death,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Could never master lovers such as we,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That even when his clutch had throttled breath,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My hymns would float in praise, undauntedly.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I did not think such words were bravado.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, I think honestly we knew no fear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of Time or Death. We loved each other so.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And thus, with you believing me, I made</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My prophecies, rebellious, unafraid....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And that was foolish, wasn’t it, my dear?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">RETURN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I have gone back in boyish wonderment</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To things that I had foolishly put by....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have found an alien and unknown content</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In seeing how some bits of cloud-filled sky</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are framed in bracken pools; through chuckling hours</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have watched the antic frogs, or curiously</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have numbered all the unnamed, vagrant flowers,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That fleck the unkempt meadows, lavishly.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Or where a headlong toppling stream has stayed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Its racing, lulled to quiet by the song</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bursting from out the thickleaved oaken shade,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There I have lain while hours sauntered past—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have found peacefulness somewhere at last,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have found a quiet needed for so long.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CLARISSA_SCOTT_DELANY"> + CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“I was born at Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, in the Twentieth Century, +and spent my early years in what is known as the ‘Black Belt.’ This was +followed by seven years in New England (1916-1923), three at Bradford +Academy, and four at Wellesley College, where my southern blood became +tinged with something of the austerity of that section. Three years +of teaching in the Dunbar High School of Washington, D. C., convinced +me that though the children were interesting, teaching was not my +<i>metier</i>. In the fall of 1926 I was married. Since completing +a study of Delinquency and Neglect among Negro children in New York +City, my career has been that of a wife, and as careers go, that is an +interesting and absorbing one.”</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">JOY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like the roistering wind</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That laughs through stalwart pines.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It floods me like the sun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On rain-drenched trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That flash with silver and green.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I abandon myself to joy—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I laugh—I sing.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Too long have I walked a desolate way,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Too long stumbled down a maze</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bewildered.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">SOLACE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My window opens out into the trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in that small space</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of branches and of sky</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I see the seasons pass</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Behold the tender green</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give way to darker heavier leaves.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The glory of the autumn comes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When steeped in mellow sunlight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The fragile, golden leaves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Against a clear blue sky</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Linger in the magic of the afternoon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And then reluctantly break off</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And filter down to pave</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A street with gold.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then bare, gray branches</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lift themselves against the</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cold December sky</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sometimes weaving a web</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Across the rose and dusk of late sunset</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sometimes against a frail new moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And one bright star riding</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A sky of that dark, living blue</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which comes before the heaviness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of night descends, or the stars</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have powdered the heavens.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Winds beat against these trees;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The cold, but gentle rain of spring</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Touches them lightly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The summer torrents strive</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To lash them into a fury</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And seek to break them—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But they stand.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My life is fevered</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And a restlessness at times</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An agony—again a vague</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And baffling discontent</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Possesses me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am thankful for my bit of sky</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And trees, and for the shifting</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pageant of the seasons.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such beauty lays upon the heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A quiet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such eternal change and permanence</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Take meaning from all turmoil</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And leave serenity</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which knows no pain.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">INTERIM</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The night was made for rest and sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For winds that softly sigh;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It was not made for grief and tears;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So then why do I cry?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The wind that blows through leafy trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is soft and warm and sweet;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> <div class="verse indent0">For me the night is a gracious cloak</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To hide my soul’s defeat.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Just one dark hour of shaken depths,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of bitter black despair—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Another day will find me brave,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And not afraid to dare.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE MASK</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">So detached and cool she is</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No motion e’er betrays</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The secret life within her soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The anguish of her days.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She seems to look upon the world</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With cold ironic eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To spurn emotion’s fevered sway,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To scoff at tears and sighs.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But once a woman with a child</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Passed by her on the street,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And once she heard from casual lips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A man’s name, bitter-sweet.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Such baffled yearning in her eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such pain upon her face!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I turned aside until the mask</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was slipped once more in place.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LANGSTON_HUGHES"> + LANGSTON HUGHES + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Langston Hughes was born in Joplin, Missouri, on the first of February, +1902. His mother was a school teacher, his father a lawyer. During most +of his childhood he lived with his grandmother in Lawrence, Kansas, +where he went to school. This old lady, Mary Sampson Patterson Leary +Langston, was the last surviving widow of John Brown’s Raid, her first +husband having been one of the five colored men to die so gloriously +at Harper’s Ferry. She had then married Charles Langston, brother of +the Negro senator, John M. Langston, and in the seventies they came to +Kansas where the mother of the poet was born.</p> + +<p>When Langston Hughes was thirteen this grandmother died and the boy +went to live with his mother in Lincoln, Illinois. A year later they +moved to Cleveland where he attended and was graduated from the +Central High School. Then followed fifteen months in Mexico where his +father had been located for some years. Here the young man learned +Spanish, taught English, and attended bull-fights. Here, too, he wrote +“The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” his first poem to be published in the +magazines.</p> + +<p>In 1921 he went to New York for a year at Columbia University. A break +with his father followed and he secured work for the summer on a truck +farm on Staten Island. Then for almost two years he travelled as a +member of the crew of freight steamers voyaging to the West Coast of +Africa and Northern Europe. In February, 1924, he went to Paris. When +he arrived he had seven dollars in his pockets; so he soon found a job +as doorman in a Montmartre cabaret. Later he became second cook and +pan-cake maker at the Grand Duc, a Negro night club where Buddy Gilmore +sometimes played and Florence sang. That summer he went to Italy, and +September <span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span>found him stranded in Genoa. He worked his way back to New +York on a tramp steamer, painting and scrubbing decks.</p> + +<p>A year in Washington followed where he worked in the office of the +Association for the Study of Negro Life and History, and later as a +bus boy at the Wardman Park Hotel. There Vachel Lindsay read some of +his poems and he was discovered by the newspapers. Then his first +book, <i>The Weary Blues</i>, appeared. He has now resumed his formal +education at Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, which he says is a +place of beauty and the ideal college for a poet. His second book of +poems, <i>Fine Clothes for the Jew</i>, is a study in racial rhythms.</p> + +<p> + Lincoln University<br> + April 13, 1927 +</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">I, TOO⁠<a id="FNanchor_16_16" href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I, too, sing America.</div> + </div> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I am the darker brother.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They send me to eat in the kitchen</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When company comes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But I laugh,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And eat well,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And grow strong.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Tomorrow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’ll sit at the table</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> <div class="verse indent0">When company comes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nobody’ll dare</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Say to me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Eat in the kitchen,”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Besides,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They’ll see how beautiful I am</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And be ashamed,—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I, too, am America.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">PRAYER⁠<a id="FNanchor_17_17" href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I ask you this:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which way to go?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I ask you this:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which sin to bear?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which crown to put</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon my hair?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I do not know,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lord God,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I do not know.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">SONG FOR A DARK GIRL⁠<a id="FNanchor_18_18" href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Way down South in Dixie</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(Break the heart of me)</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They hung my black young lover</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To a cross roads tree.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Way down South in Dixie</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(Bruised body high in air)</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I asked the white Lord Jesus</div> + <div class="verse indent2">What was the use of prayer.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Way down South in Dixie</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(Break the heart of me)</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Love is a naked shadow</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On a gnarled and naked tree.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">HOMESICK BLUES⁠<a id="FNanchor_19_19" href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">De railroad bridge’s</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A sad song in de air.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">De railroad bridge’s</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A sad song in de air.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ever time de trains pass</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I wants to go somewhere.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I went down to de station.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ma heart was in ma mouth.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Went down to de station.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Heart was in ma mouth.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lookin’ for a box car</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To roll me to de South.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Homesick blues, Lawd,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’S a terrible thing to have.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Homesick blues is</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A terrible thing to have.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To keep from cryin’</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I opens ma mouth an’ laughs.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FANTASY IN PURPLE⁠<a id="FNanchor_20_20" href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Beat the drums of tragedy for me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beat the drums of tragedy and death.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And let the choir sing a stormy song</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To drown the rattle of my dying breath.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Beat the drums of tragedy for me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And let the white violins whir thin and slow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To go with me</div> + <div class="verse indent12">to the darkness</div> + <div class="verse indent26">where I go.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">DREAM VARIATION⁠<a id="FNanchor_21_21" href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To fling my arms wide</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In some place of the sun,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To whirl and to dance</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till the white day is done.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then rest at cool evening</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath a tall tree</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While night comes on gently,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Dark like me,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That is my dream!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To fling my arms wide</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the face of the sun,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dance! whirl! whirl!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Till the quick day is done.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Rest at pale evening....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A tall, slim tree....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Night coming tenderly</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Black like me.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS⁠<a id="FNanchor_22_22" href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I’ve known rivers:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than</div> + <div class="verse indent4">the flow of human blood in human veins.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My soul has grown deep like the rivers.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln</div> + <div class="verse indent4">went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy</div> + <div class="verse indent4">bosom turn all golden in the sunset.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I’ve known rivers:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ancient, dusky rivers.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">My soul has grown deep like the rivers.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">POEM⁠<a id="FNanchor_23_23" href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The night is beautiful,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So the faces of my people.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The stars are beautiful,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So the eyes of my people.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Beautiful, also, is the sun.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">SUICIDE’S NOTE⁠<a id="FNanchor_24_24" href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The calm,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cool face of the river</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Asked me for a kiss.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">MOTHER TO SON⁠<a id="FNanchor_25_25" href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Well, son, I’ll tell you:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It’s had tacks in it,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And splinters,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And boards torn up,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And places with no carpet on the floor—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bare.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But all the time</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’s been a-climbin’ on,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And reachin’ landin’s,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And turnin’ corners,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And sometimes goin’ in the dark</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where there ain’t been no light.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So boy, don’t you turn back.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Don’t you set down on the steps</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Don’t you fall now—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For I’s still goin’, honey,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I’s still climbin’,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">A HOUSE IN TAOS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>Rain</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thunder of the Rain God:</div> + <div class="verse indent4">And we three</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Smitten by beauty.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thunder of the Rain God:</div> + <div class="verse indent4">And we three</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Weary, weary.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Thunder of the Rain God:</div> + <div class="verse indent4">And you, she and I</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Waiting for nothingness.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Do you understand the stillness</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Of this house in Taos</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Under the thunder of the Rain God?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>Sun</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0">That there should be a barren garden</div> + <div class="verse indent0">About his house in Taos</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is not so strange,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But that there should be three barren hearts</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In this one house in Taos,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who carries ugly things to show the sun?</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>Moon</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0">Did you ask for the beaten brass of the moon?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We can buy lovely things with money,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You, she and I,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet you seek,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As though you could keep,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This unbought loveliness of moon.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent2"><i>Wind</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0">Touch our bodies, wind.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Our bodies are separate, individual things.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Touch our bodies, wind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But blow quickly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the red, white, yellow skins</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of our bodies</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To the terrible snarl,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not mine,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not yours,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not hers,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But all one snarl of souls.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blow quickly, wind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Before we run back into the windlessness,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With our bodies,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into the windlessness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of our house in Taos.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_16_16" href="#FNanchor_16_16" class="label">[16]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_17_17" href="#FNanchor_17_17" class="label">[17]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf. Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_18_18" href="#FNanchor_18_18" class="label">[18]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_19_19" href="#FNanchor_19_19" class="label">[19]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_20_20" href="#FNanchor_20_20" class="label">[20]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_21_21" href="#FNanchor_21_21" class="label">[21]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_22_22" href="#FNanchor_22_22" class="label">[22]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_23_23" href="#FNanchor_23_23" class="label">[23]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_24_24" href="#FNanchor_24_24" class="label">[24]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a id="Footnote_25_25" href="#FNanchor_25_25" class="label">[25]</a> By permission of and special arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., authorized +publishers.</p></div></div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="GWENDOLYN_B_BENNETT"> + GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Gwendolyn B. Bennett was born in Giddings, Texas, on July 8th, 1902. +Her father was a lawyer and her mother <span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span>was a school teacher. She +received her elementary training in the Public Schools of Washington, +D. C., and Harrisburg, Pa. She was graduated from the Girls’ High +School in Brooklyn, New York, during January, 1921. While she was in +attendance there she was a member of the Felter Literary Society and +the Girls’ High School Dramatic Society, being the first Negro girl to +have been elected to either of these societies. In an open contest she +was awarded the first prize for a poster bearing the slogan <i>Fresh +Air Prevents Tuberculosis</i>.</p> + +<p>She matriculated in the Fine Arts Department of Teachers’ College, +Columbia University, where she remained for two years. She then entered +the Normal Art Course at Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York. She was +the author of her class play each of the two years she was there. In +her Junior Year she played the leading part in the play which she had +herself written. She was graduated from Pratt Institute June 1924.</p> + +<p>She then became a member of the Howard University Faculty in Fine Arts +as Instructor in Design, Water-color and Crafts. During the Christmas +holidays of the school year 1924-25 Miss Bennett was awarded the +Thousand Dollar Foreign Scholarship by the Alpha Sigma Chapter of the +Delta Sigma Theta Sorority at its Annual Convention held in New York +City.</p> + +<p>She sailed for Cherbourg, France on June fifteenth, 1925. While in +Paris she studied at the Académie Julian, The Académie Coloraossi and +the École de Pantheon. Through the influence of Konrad Bercovici she +was thrown in contact with the artist, Frans Masereel, one of France’s +best known modern painters. M. and Mme. Masereel offered Miss Bennett +the hospitality of their home and together with their circle of friends +did much to encourage her in her work while in Paris. She returned to +America during June 1926.</p> + +<p>For the summer of 1926 she was employed at the <i>Opportunity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span></i> +magazine where she acted in the capacity of Assistant to the Editor. +September 1926 she returned to Howard University where she resumed her +classroom work after a year’s leave of absence.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">QUATRAINS</p> + +<p class="ph3">1</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Brushes and paints are all I have</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To speak the music in my soul—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While silently there laughs at me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A copper jar beside a pale green bowl.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">2</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">How strange that grass should sing—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Grass is so still a thing....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And strange the swift surprise of snow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So soft it falls and slow.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SECRET</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall make a song like your hair ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gold-woven with shadows green-tinged,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I shall play with my song</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As my fingers might play with your hair.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Deep in my heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall play with my song of you,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> <div class="verse indent0"><i>Gently</i>....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall laugh</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At its sensitive lustre ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall wrap my song in a blanket,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blue like your eyes are blue</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With tiny shots of silver.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall wrap it caressingly,</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Tenderly</i>....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall sing a lullaby</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To the song I have made</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of your hair and eyes ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And you will never know</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That deep in my heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shelter a song of you</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Secretly</i>....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">ADVICE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You were a sophist,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pale and quite remote,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As you bade me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Write poems—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Brown poems</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of dark words</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And prehistoric rhythms ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your pallor stifled my poesy</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But I remembered a tapestry</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That I would some day weave</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of dim purples and fine reds</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And blues</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like night and death—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The keen precision of your words</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wove a silver thread</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the dusk softness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of my dream-stuff....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TO A DARK GIRL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I love you for your brownness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the rounded darkness of your breast.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I love you for the breaking sadness in your voice</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And shadows where your wayward eye-lids rest.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Something of old forgotten queens</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lurks in the lithe abandon of your walk</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And something of the shackled slave</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sobs in the rhythm of your talk.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, little brown girl, born for sorrow’s mate,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Keep all you have of queenliness,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Forgetting that you once were slave,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And let your full lips laugh at Fate!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">YOUR SONGS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">When first you sang a song to me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With laughter shining from your eyes,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> <div class="verse indent0">You trolled your music liltingly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With cadences of glad surprise.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In after years I heard you croon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In measures delicately slow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of trees turned silver by the moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And nocturnes sprites and lovers know.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And now I cannot hear you sing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But love still holds your melody</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For silence is a sounding thing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To one who listens hungrily.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FANTASY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where you were the dusk-eyed queen,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And there in the pallor of moon-veiled light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The loveliest things were seen ...</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A slim-necked peacock sauntered there</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In a garden of lavender hues,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And you were strange with your purple hair</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As you sat in your amethyst chair</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With your feet in your hyacinth shoes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, the moon gave a bluish light</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Through the trees in the land of dreams and night.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I stood behind a bush of yellow-green</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And whistled a song to the dark-haired queen ...</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF ALEXANDER DUMAS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Cemeteries are places for departed souls</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bones interred,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or hearts with shattered loves.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A woman with lips made warm for laughter</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Would find grey stones and roving spirits</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Too chill for living, moving pulses ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And thou, great spirit, wouldst shiver in thy granite shroud</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Should idle mirth or empty talk</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Disturb thy tranquil sleeping.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A cemetery is a place for shattered loves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And broken hearts....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bowed before the crystal chalice of thy soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I find the multi-colored fragrance of thy mind</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Has lost itself in Death’s transparency.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, stir the lucid waters of thy sleep</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And coin for me a tale</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of happy loves and gems and joyous limbs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And hearts where love is sweet!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A cemetery is a place for broken hearts</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And silent thought ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And silence never moves,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor speaks nor sings.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">HATRED</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall hate you</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like a dart of singing steel</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shot through still air</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At even-tide.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or solemnly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As pines are sober</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When they stand etched</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Against the sky.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hating you shall be a game</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Played with cool hands</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And slim fingers.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your heart will yearn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the lonely splendor</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the pine tree;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While rekindled fires</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In my eyes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall wound you like swift arrows.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Memory will lay its hands</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon your breast</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And you will understand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My hatred.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SONNET</p> + +<p class="ph3">1</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A lover come from legends long ago—With</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> <div class="verse indent0">silver spurs and silken plumes a-blow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And flashing sword caught fast and buckled back</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In a carven sheath of Tamarack.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He came with footsteps beautifully slow,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And spoke in voice meticulously low.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He came and Romance followed in his track....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I did not ask his name—I thought him Love;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I did not care to see his hidden face.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All life seemed born in my intaken breath;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He bent to kiss and raised his visor’s lace ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SONNET</p> + +<p class="ph3">2</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Some things are very dear to me—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such things as flowers bathed by rain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or patterns traced upon the sea</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or crocuses where snow has lain ...</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The iridescence of a gem,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The moon’s cool opalescent light,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Azaleas and the scent of them,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And honeysuckles in the night.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And many sounds are also dear—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like winds that sing among the trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or crickets calling from the weir</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or Negroes humming melodies.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> <div class="verse indent0">But dearer far than all surmise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are sudden tear-drops in your eyes.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ARNA_BONTEMPS"> + ARNA BONTEMPS + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Arna Bontemps explains that he was just tall enough to see above window +sills when the first trolley car came down Lee Street in Alexandria, +La. His mother, Marie Pembroke, had been born in this same town but his +father had come out of Marksville, a smaller town of that state. Though +exceedingly young and very frail, Marie Pembroke had taught school +until her marriage, while her husband, Paul Bontemps, was a brick +mason, the son and grandson of brick masons.</p> + +<p>With Arna Bontemps in his third year and a second child, a girl, just +past one, the family left the South for San Francisco. However, they +stopped in Los Angeles to visit relatives and have never moved further. +Here the boy’s mother died some nine years later and here his father +is still living. Here also he received his early education in a rather +irregular attendance of a number of schools. He went through the +schools rapidly enough and in spite of being out several years received +a college degree in his twentieth year.</p> + +<p>In the year following that he lost his illusions with reference to a +musical career and returned to an original intention to eat bread by +the sweat of teaching school. It is to be remembered that he went to +college first with the purpose of taking a medical course but it took +him only a day or two to decide better.</p> + +<p>He lives in New York City and is now twenty-four and married.</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE RETURN</p> + +<p class="ph3">I</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Once more, listening to the wind and rain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Once more, you and I, and above the hurting sound</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of these comes back the throbbing of remembered rain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Treasured rain falling on dark ground.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Once more, huddling birds upon the leaves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And summer trembling on a withered vine.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And once more, returning out of pain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The friendly ghost that was your love and mine.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">II</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Darkness brings the jungle to our room:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The throb of rain is the throb of muffled drums.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Darkness hangs our room with pendulums</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of vine and in the gathering gloom</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Our walls recede into a denseness of</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Surrounding trees. This is a night of love</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Retained from those lost nights our fathers slept</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In huts; this is a night that must not die.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let us keep the dance of rain our fathers kept</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And tread our dreams beneath the jungle sky.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">III</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And now the downpour ceases.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let us go back once more upon the glimmering leaves</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And as the throbbing of the drums increases</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shake the grass and dripping boughs of trees.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A dry wind stirs the palm; the old tree grieves.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Time has charged the years: the old days have returned.</i></div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Let us dance by metal waters burned</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With gold of moon, let us dance</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With naked feet beneath the young spice trees.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What was that light, that radiance</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On your face?—something I saw when first</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You passed beneath the jungle tapestries?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A moment we pause to quench our thirst</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Kneeling at the water’s edge, the gleam</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon your face is plain: you have wanted this.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let us go back and search the tangled dream</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And as the muffled drum-beats throb and miss</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Remember again how early darkness comes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To dreams and silence to the drums.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">IV</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Let us go back into the dusk again,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Slow and sad-like following the track</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of blowing leaves and cool white rain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into the old gray dream, let us go back.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Our walls close about us we lie and listen</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To the noise of the street, the storm and the driven birds.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> <div class="verse indent0">A question shapes your lips, your eyes glisten</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Retaining tears, but there are no more words.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">A BLACK MAN TALKS OF REAPING</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I have sown beside all waters in my day.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I planted deep, within my heart the fear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That wind or fowl would take the grain away.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I planted safe against this stark, lean year.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I scattered seed enough to plant the land</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In rows from Canada to Mexico</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But for my reaping only what the hand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Can hold at once is all that I can show.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet what I sowed and what the orchard yields</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My brother’s sons are gathering stalk and root,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Small wonder then my children glean in fields</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They have not sown, and feed on bitter fruit.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TO A YOUNG GIRL LEAVING THE HILL COUNTRY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The hills are wroth; the stones have scored you bitterly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Because you looked upon the naked sun</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oblivious of them, because you did not see</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The trees you touched or mountains that you walked upon.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But there will come a day of darkness in the land,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A day wherein remembered sun alone comes through</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To mark the hills; then perhaps you’ll understand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just how it was you drew from them and they from you.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For there will be a bent old woman in that day</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who, feeling something of this country in her bones,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will leave her house tapping with a stick, who will (they say)</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come back to seek the girl she was in these familiar stones.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">NOCTURNE AT BETHESDA</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I thought I saw an angel flying low,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I thought I saw the flicker of a wing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Above the mulberry trees; but not again.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bethesda sleeps. This ancient pool that healed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A host of bearded Jews does not awake.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This pool that once the angels troubled does not move.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No angel stirs it now, no Saviour comes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With healing in His hands to raise the sick</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bid the lame man leap upon the ground.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The golden days are gone. Why do we wait</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So long upon the marble steps, blood</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Falling from our open wounds? and why</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Do our black faces search the empty sky?</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Is there something we have forgotten? some precious thing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We have lost, wandering in strange lands?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There was a day, I remember now,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I beat my breast and cried, “Wash me God,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wash me with a wave of wind upon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The barley; O quiet One, draw near, draw near!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Walk upon the hills with lovely feet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And in the waterfall stand and speak.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Dip white hands in the lily pool and mourn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon the harps still hanging in the trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Near Babylon along the river’s edge,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But oh, remember me, I pray, before</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The summer goes and rose leaves lose their red.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The old terror takes my heart, the fear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of quiet waters and of faint twilights.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There will be better days when I am gone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And healing pools where I cannot be healed.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fragrant stars will gleam forever and ever</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Above the place where I lie desolate.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet I hope, still I long to live.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And if there can be returning after death</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall come back. But it will not be here;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If you want me you must search for me</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath the palms of Africa. Or if</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am not there then you may call to me</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Across the shining dunes, perhaps I shall</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Be following a desert caravan.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I may pass through centuries of death</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With quiet eyes, but I’ll remember still</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A jungle tree with burning scarlet birds.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There is something I have forgotten, some precious thing.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall be seeking ornaments of ivory,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall be dying for a jungle fruit.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent14">You do not hear, Bethesda.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O still green water in a stagnant pool!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Love abandoned you and me alike.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There was a day you held a rich full moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon your heart and listened to the words</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of men now dead and saw the angels fly.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There is a simple story on your face;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Years have wrinkled you. I know, Bethesda!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You are sad. It is the same with me.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LENGTH OF MOON</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then the golden hour</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will tick its last</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the flame will go down in the flower.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A briefer length of moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then we may think of this, yet</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There will be something forgotten</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And something we should forget.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It will be like all things we know:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The stone will fail; a rose is sure to go.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It will be quiet then and we may stay</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As long at the picket gate</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But there will be less to say.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">LANCELOT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The fruit of the orchard is over-ripe, Elaine,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And leaves are crisping on the garden wall.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Leaves on the garden path are wet and rain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Drips from the low shrubs with a steady fall.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It is long, so long since I was here, Elaine,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Moles have gnawed the rose tree at its root;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You did not think that I would come again,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Least of all in the day of falling fruit.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">GETHSEMANE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">All that night I walked alone and wept.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I tore a rose and dropped it on the ground.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My heart was lead; all that night I kept</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Listening to hear a dreadful sound.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A tree bent down and dew dripped from its hair.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The earth was warm; dawn came solemnly.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I stretched full-length upon the grass and there</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I said your name but silence answered me.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">A TREE DESIGN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A tree is more than a shadow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Blurred against the sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">More than ink spilled on the fringe</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of white clouds floating by.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A tree is more than an April design</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or a blighted winter bough</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where love and music used to be.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A tree is something in me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Very still and lonely now.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">BLIGHT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I have seen a lovely thing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stark before a whip of weather:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The tree that was so wistful after spring</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beating barren twigs together.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The birds that came there one by one,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The sensuous leaves that used to sway</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And whisper there at night, all are gone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Each has vanished in its way.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And this whip is on my heart;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There is no sound that it allows,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No little song that I may start</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But I hear the beating of dead boughs.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE DAY-BREAKERS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We are not come to wage a strife</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With swords upon this hill.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is not wise to waste the life</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Against a stubborn will.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet would we die as some have done:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beating a way for the rising sun.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">CLOSE YOUR EYES!</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Go through the gates with closed eyes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Stand erect and let your black face front the west.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Drop the axe and leave the timber where it lies;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A woodman on the hill must have his rest.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Go where leaves are lying brown and wet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And every face you ever loved forget.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Close your eyes; walk bravely through.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">GOD GIVE TO MEN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">God give the yellow man</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An easy breeze at blossom time.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Grant his eager, slanting eyes to cover</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Every land and dream</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of afterwhile.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To whirl in tall buildings.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Allow them many ships at sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And on land, soldiers</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And policemen.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">For black man, God,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No need to bother more</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But only fill afresh his meed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of laughter,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His cup of tears.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">God suffer little men</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The taste of soul’s desire.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">HOMING</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweet timber land</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where soft winds blow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The high green tree</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And fan away the fog!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah fragrant stream</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where thirsty creatures go</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And strong black men</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hew the heavy log!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh broken house</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Crumbling there alone,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wanting me!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh silent tree</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Must I always be</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A wild bird</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Riding the wind</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And screaming bitterly?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">GOLGOTHA IS A MOUNTAIN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Golgotha is a mountain, a purple mound</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Almost out of sight.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One night they hanged two thieves there,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And another man.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Some women wept heavily that night;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their tears are flowing still. They have made a river;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Once it covered me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then the people went away and left Golgotha</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Deserted.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, I’ve seen many mountains:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pale purple mountains melting in the evening mists and blurring on the borders of the sky.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> <div class="verse indent0">I climbed old Shasta and chilled my hands in its summer snows.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I rested in the shadow of Popocatepetl and it whispered to me of daring prowess.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I looked upon the Pyrenees and felt the zest of warm exotic nights.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I slept at the foot of Fujiyama and dreamed of legend and of death.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I’ve seen other mountains rising from the wistful moors like the breasts of a slender maiden.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who knows the mystery of mountains!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Some of them are awful, others are just lonely.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Italy has its Rome and California has San Francisco,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All covered with mountains.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Some think these mountains grew</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like ant hills</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or sand dunes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That might be so—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I wonder what started them all!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Babylon is a mountain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And so is Ninevah,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With grass growing on them;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Palaces and hanging gardens started them.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I wonder what is under the hills</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In Mexico</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And Japan!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There are mountains in Africa too.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Treasure is buried there:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gold and precious stones</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And moulded glory.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lush grass is growing there</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sinking before the wind.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Black men are bowing.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Naked in that grass</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Digging with their fingers.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am one of them:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Those mountains should be ours.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It would be great</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To touch the pieces of glory with our hands.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">These mute unhappy hills,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bowed down with broken backs,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Speak often one to another:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“A day is as a year,” they cry,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“And a thousand years as one day.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We watched the caravan</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That bore our queen to the courts of Solomon;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And when the first slave traders came</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We bowed our heads.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Oh, Brothers, it is not long!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust shall yet devour the stones</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But we shall be here when they are gone.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mountains are rising all around me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Some are so small they are not seen;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Others are large.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All of them get big in time and people forget</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What started them at first.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Oh the world is covered with mountains!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Beneath each one there is something buried:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Some pile of wreckage that started it there.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mountains are lonely and some are awful.</div> + </div> + <hr class="tb"> + + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">One day I will crumble.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They’ll cover my heap with dirt and that will make a mountain.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I think it will be Golgotha.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="ALBERT_RICE"> + ALBERT RICE + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I am a native of our Capital City, born in the Mauve Decade (1903). My +schooling has been in the Washington grammar and high schools. It was +while a student at Dunbar High School that I felt a restless urge to +write something other than dull formal paragraphs in English. I made +several attempts at verse but found them so poor that I hastily put +such ideas behind me.</p> + +<p>After leaving high school I entered the government service in +Washington, but my radical views could not become reconciled to the +conservative bourgeoise ideals around me; so I left the government +service and journeyed to New York in the winter of 1926. Here I +served an apprenticeship in literary vagabondage with the bizarre and +eccentric young vagabond poet of High Harlem, Richard Bruce. It was +here that I felt inspired to write “The Black Madonna.” I was one +evening at vespers down at St. Mary’s the Virgin, and while lost in +contemplation before Our Lady, I thought of a Madonna of swart skin, a +Madonna of dark mien.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span></p> + +<p>Despite my radicalism I am religious. I admire the socialist form of +government, and my favorite poet is Claude McKay. And some day I hope +to flee the shores of this exquisite hell. My temperament is Latin. +I abhor all things Anglo-Saxon. I’d rather live in the squalor of +Mulberry Street, N. Y. (Little Italy) than at Irvington-on-the-Hudson. +I love bull fights and dislike baseball games. I like dancing and +dislike prayer meetings. I love New York because it is crowded and +noisy and an outpost of Europe. Of my home here in Washington I have +not much to offer. I like Washington because it has such a large share +of Babbitts, both white and black. And I like it because Georgia +Douglas Johnson lives there and on Saturday nights has an assembly of +likable and civilized people, and because it was from this Saturday +night circle that Jean Toomer, Richard Bruce, and Richard Goodwin, the +artist, went forth to fame and infamy.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">THE BLACK MADONNA</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Not as the white nations</div> + <div class="verse indent2">know thee</div> + <div class="verse indent4">O Mother!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But swarthy of cheek</div> + <div class="verse indent2">and full-lipped as the</div> + <div class="verse indent4">child races are.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet thou art she,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">the Immaculate Maid,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">and none other,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Crowned in the stable</div> + <div class="verse indent2">at Bethlehem,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">hailed of the star.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">See where they come,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">thy people,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">so humbly appealing,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">From the ancient lands</div> + <div class="verse indent2">where the olden faiths</div> + <div class="verse indent4">had birth.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Tired dusky hands</div> + <div class="verse indent2">uplifted for thy</div> + <div class="verse indent4">healing.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Pity them, Mother,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">the untaught</div> + <div class="verse indent4">of earth.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="COUNTEE_CULLEN"> + COUNTEE CULLEN + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Born in New York City, May 30, 1903, and reared in the conservative +atmosphere of a Methodist parsonage, Countee Cullen’s chief problem +has been that of reconciling a Christian upbringing with a pagan +inclination. His life so far has not convinced him that the problem +is insoluble. Educated in the elementary and high schools of New York +City, with an A.B. degree and a Phi Beta Kappa Key from New York +University, an M.A. from Harvard, arrantly opposed to any form of +enforced racial segregation, he finds it a matter of growing regret +that no part of his academic education has been drawn from a racial +school. As a poet he is a rank conservative, loving the measured line +and the skillful rhyme; but not blind to the virtues of those poets who +will not be circumscribed; and he is thankful indeed for the knowledge +that should he ever desire to go adventuring, the world is rife with +paths to choose from. He has said, perhaps with a reiteration sickening +to some of his friends, that he wishes any merit that may be in his +work to flow from it solely as the expression of a poet—with no racial +consideration to bolster it up. He is still of the same thought. At +present he is employed as Assistant Editor of <i>Opportunity, A Journal +of Negro Life</i>.</p> + +<p>His published works are <i>Color</i>, <i>The Ballad of the Brown +Girl</i>, and <i>Copper Sun</i>.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">LINES TO OUR ELDERS</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You too listless to examine</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If in pestilence or famine</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Death lurk least, a hungry gamin</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Gnawing on you like a beaver</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On a root, while you trifle</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Time away nodding in the sun,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Careless how the shadows crawl</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Surely up your crumbling wall,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Heedless of the Thief’s footfall,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Death’s, whose nimble fingers rifle</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your heartbeats one by weary one,—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Here’s the difference in our dying:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You go dawdling, we go flying.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Here’s a thought flung out to plague you:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ours the pleasure if we’d liever</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Burn completely with the fever</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Than go ambling with the ague.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH LIFE</p> + +<p class="ph3">(With apologies to the memory of Alan Seeger)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I have a rendezvous with Life</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In days I hope will come</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere youth has sped and strength of mind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ere voices sweet grown dumb;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I have a rendezvous with Life</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When Spring’s first heralds hum.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It may be I shall greet her soon,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall riot at her behest;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> <div class="verse indent0">It may be I shall seek in vain</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The peace of her downy breast;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet I would keep this rendezvous,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And deem all hardships sweet,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If at the end of the long white way,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There Life and I shall meet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sure some will cry it better far</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To crown their days in sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Than face the wind, the road, and rain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To heed the falling deep;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though wet, nor blow, nor space I fear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet fear I deeply, too,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lest Death shall greet and claim me ere</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I keep Life’s rendezvous.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">PROTEST</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I long not now, a little while at least,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For that serene interminable hour</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When I shall leave this barmecidal feast,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With poppy for my everlasting flower.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I long not now for that dim cubicle</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of earth to which my lease will not expire,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where he who comes a tenant there may dwell</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Without a thought of famine, flood, or fire.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Surely that house has quiet to bestow:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Still tongue, spent pulse, heart pumped of its last throb,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The fingers tense and tranquil in a row,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> <div class="verse indent0">The throat unwelled with any sigh or sob.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But time to live, to love, bear pain and smile,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh, we are given such a little while!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">YET DO I MARVEL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And did he stoop to quibble could tell why</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The little buried mole continues blind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why flesh that mirrors him must some day die,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is baited with the fickle fruit, declare</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To struggle up a never-ending stair.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Inscrutable His ways are and immune</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To catechism by a mind too strewn</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With petty cares to slightly understand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What awful brain compels His awful hand;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To make a poet black, and bid him sing!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TO LOVERS OF EARTH: FAIR WARNING</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Give over to high things the fervent thought</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You waste on Earth; let down the righteous bar</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Against a wayward peace too dearly bought</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon this pale and passion-frozen star.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweethearts and friends, are they not loyal? Far</div> + <div class="verse indent0">More fickle, false, perverse, far more unkind,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is Earth to those who give her heart and mind.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And you whose lusty youth her snares intrigue,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who glory in her seas, swear by her clouds,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With Age, man’s foe, Earth ever is in league.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Time resurrects her even while he crowds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your bloom to dust, and lengthens out your shrouds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A day’s length or a year’s. She will be young</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When your last cracked and quivering note is sung.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She will remain the Earth, sufficient still</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though you are gone, and with you that rare loss</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That vanishes with your bewildered will;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And there shall flame no red, indignant cross</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For you, no quick white scar of wrath emboss</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The sky, no blood drip from a wounded moon,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And not a single star chime out of tune.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FROM THE DARK TOWER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">We shall not always plant while others reap</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The golden increment of bursting fruit,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not always countenance, abject and mute,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not everlastingly while others sleep</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not always bend to some more subtle brute;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">We were not made eternally to weep.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The night whose sable breast relieves the stark</div> + <div class="verse indent0">White stars is no less lovely, being dark;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And there are buds that cannot bloom at all</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TO JOHN KEATS, POET, AT SPRINGTIME</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There never was a spring like this;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It is an echo, that repeats</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My last year’s song and next year’s bliss.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know, in spite of all men say</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of Beauty, you have felt her most.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Yea, even in your grave her way</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Spring never was so fair and dear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As Beauty makes her seem this year.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am as helpless in the toil</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of Spring as any lamb that bleats</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To feel the solid earth recoil</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her tocsin call to those who love her,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And lo! the dogwood petals cover</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek</div> + <div class="verse indent0">White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover</div> + <div class="verse indent0">About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While white and purple lilacs muster</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A strength that bears them to a cluster</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of color and odor; for her sake</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All things that slept are now awake.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And you and I, shall we lie still,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">John Keats, while Beauty summons us?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Somehow I feel your sensitive will</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is pulsing up some tremulous</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Grow music as they grow, since your</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For life that opens death’s dark door.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though dust, your fingers still can push</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The Vision Splendid to a birth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Though now they work as grass in the hush</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“John Keats is dead,” they say, but I</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who hear your full insistent cry</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In bud and blossom, leaf and tree,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Know John Keats still writes poetry.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And while my head is earthward bowed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To read new life sprung from your shroud,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Folks seeing me must think it strange</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That merely spring should so derange</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My mind. They do not know that you,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">John Keats, keep revel with me, too.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FOUR EPITAPHS</p> + +<p class="ph3">1</p> + +<p class="ph3"><i>For My Grandmother</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">This lovely flower fell to seed;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Work gently sun and rain;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She held it as her dying creed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That she would grow again.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">2</p> + +<p class="ph3"><i>For John Keats, Apostle of Beauty</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Not writ in water nor in mist,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweet lyric throat, thy name.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Thy singing lips that cold death kissed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have seared his own with flame.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">3</p> + +<p class="ph3"><i>For Paul Laurence Dunbar</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Born of the sorrowful of heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Mirth was a crown upon his head;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Pride kept his twisted lips apart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In jest, to hide a heart that bled.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">4</p> + +<p class="ph3"><i>For a Lady I Know</i></p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She even thinks that up in heaven</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Her class lies late and snores,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While poor black cherubs rise at seven</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To do celestial chores.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">INCIDENT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Once riding in old Baltimore,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I saw a Baltimorean</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Keep looking straight at me.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Now I was eight and very small,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And he was no whit bigger,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And so I smiled, but he poked out</div> + <div class="verse indent2">His tongue and called me, “Nigger.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I saw the whole of Baltimore</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From May until December:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of all the things that happened there</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That’s all that I remember.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="DONALD_JEFFREY_HAYES"> + DONALD JEFFREY HAYES + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Donald Jeffrey Hayes was born November 16, 1904, in Raleigh, N. C. +At the age of five his parents brought him to Atlantic City, N. J., +where he attended the public schools through the freshman year of High +School. In 1913 he moved with his family to Pleasantville, N. J., +where in his sophomore year of High School he was awarded, after a +near student strike, court action and the dismissal of a member of the +faculty—the highest debating honors. Following this unpleasantness, he +went to Chicago where he studied privately the forms of poetry while +completing his High School work. He graduated in 1926 from Englewood +an honor student, and distinguished, as it were, as “The poet of +Englewood” and “The Bronze God” as his fellow students dubbed him.</p> + +<p>He is at present planning a volume of his verse and studying the voice, +planning to make his career in the concert field.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">INSCRIPTION</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He wrote upon his heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As on the door of some dark ancient house:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who once lived here has long been dead</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As dead as moss-grown stone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Only a ghost inhabits here</div> + <div class="verse indent0">One that would be alone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Only a ghost inhabits here</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A ghost without desire</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Who sits before a shadowed hearth</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And warms to a spectral fire....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">AUF WIEDERSEHEN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall come this way again</div> + <div class="verse indent2">On some distant morrow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the red and golden leaves</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Have fallen on my sorrow...!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall come this way again</div> + <div class="verse indent2">When this day is rotten</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the grave of yesterdays</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And this hour forgotten...!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall come this way again</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Before the lamp light dies</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To comfort you and dry the tear</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of penance from your eyes...!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">NIGHT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Night like purple flakes of snow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Falls with ease</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Catching on the roofs of houses</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the tops of trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Down upon the distant grass</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the distant flower</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It will drift into this room</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In an hour....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">CONFESSION</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She kneeled before me begging</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That I should with a prayer</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give her absolution</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(How golden was her hair!)</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She begged an absolution</div> + <div class="verse indent2">While the moments fled</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She thought my tears were pity</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(My soul her lips were red!)</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She begged of me forgiveness</div> + <div class="verse indent2">God you understand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">(For pale and soft and slender</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Was her dainty hand!)</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She begged that I should pray You</div> + <div class="verse indent2">That her Soul might rest</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But I could not pray O Master</div> + <div class="verse indent2">(Ivory was her breast!)</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">NOCTURNE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Softly blow lightly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O twilight breeze</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Scarcely bend slightly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O silver trees:</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Night glides slowly down hill ... down stream</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bringing a myriad star-twinkling dream....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Softly blow lightly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O twilight breeze</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Scarcely bend slightly</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O silver trees:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Night will spill sleep in your day weary eye</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While a soft yellow moon steals down the sky....</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Softly blow</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Scarcely bend</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So ...!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lullaby....</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">AFTER ALL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">After all and after all</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the song is sung</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And swallowed up in silence</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It were more real unsung....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">After all and after all</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the lips have stirred</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such a little of the thought</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is transmuted in the word....</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Suffer not my ears with hearing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Suffer not your thoughts with speech.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let us feel into our meaning</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And thus know the all of each.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="JONATHAN_HENDERSON_BROOKS"> + JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I was born on a farm twelve miles southwest of Lexington, Mississippi, +in 1904. When I was eleven years old our family was disunited by +divorce. My three sisters and only brother went with father while I +chose to become my mother’s “little ploughman.” We worked around on +“half shares” in the community of my birth until I was fourteen, and +then my mother, who had managed somehow to save enough money to keep +me in school for four months, sent me to Jackson College. It was here +that I received my first material recognition for writing when I was +awarded the first prize in a local contest for my first story, entitled +“The Bible In The Cotton Field.” Mother’s plan was to send me back to +Jackson College again the following year, but the white landlord took +her entire crop of four bales to cover the land rent of my uncle with +whom we had gone to live in Humphreys County that year.</p> + +<p>My formal education has been interrupted more than once by periods of +farming and teaching. I moved up my years and taught two five-months +sessions in Humphreys County before I finished my high school work. In +the fall of 1923 I matriculated at Lincoln University, Missouri, and +graduated from its high school department in June 1925 with salutatory +honors. Lincoln was very kind to me during those two years—the +happiest I have known in all my life. It gave me work enough to cover +my expenses while attending there, twice chose me the president of my +class, and bestowed upon me each of the three first prizes it offers in +the high school department, besides electing me class poet and giving +me a host of staunch friends.</p> + +<p>I am now pursuing my college work at Tougaloo College <span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>and am part time +pastor of the second Baptist Church of Kosciusko, Mississippi.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">THE RESURRECTION</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">His friends went off and left Him dead</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In Joseph’s subterranean bed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Embalmed with myrrh and sweet aloes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And wrapped in snow-white burial clothes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then shrewd men came and set a seal</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Upon His grave, lest thieves should steal</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His lifeless form away, and claim</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For Him an undeserving fame.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“There is no use,” the soldiers said,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Of standing sentries by the dead.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wherefore, they drew their cloaks around</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Themselves, and fell upon the ground,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And slept like dead men, all night through,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the pale moonlight and chilling dew.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">A muffled whiff of sudden breath</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ruffled the passive air of death.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He woke, and raised Himself in bed;</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Recalled how He was crucified;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Touched both hands’ fingers to His head,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And lightly felt His fresh-healed side.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Then with a deep, triumphant sigh,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He coolly put His grave-clothes by—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Folded the sweet, white winding sheet,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The toweling, the linen bands,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">The napkin, all with careful hands—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And left the borrowed chamber neat.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">His steps were like the breaking day:</div> + <div class="verse indent2">So soft across the watch He stole,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">He did not wake a single soul,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor spill one dewdrop by the way.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Now Calvary was loveliness:</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Lilies that flowered thereupon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pulled off the white moon’s pallid dress,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And put the morning’s vesture on.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Why seek the living among the dead?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He is not here,” the angel said.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The early winds took up the words,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bore them to the lilting birds,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The leafing trees, and everything</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That breathed the living breath of spring.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE LAST QUARTER MOON OF THE DYING YEAR</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The last quarter moon of the dying year,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pendant behind a naked cottonwood tree</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On a frosty, dawning morning</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With the back of her silver head</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Turned to the waking sun.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Quiet like the waters</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of Galilee</div> + <div class="verse indent0">After the Lord had bid them</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Peace, be still.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">O silent beauty, indescribable!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dead, do they say?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Would God that I shall seem</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So beautiful in death.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">PAEAN</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Across the dewy lawn she treads</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Before the sun awakes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">While lush, green grasses bow their heads</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To kiss the tracks she makes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The violets, in clusters, stand</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And stare her beauty through,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And seem so happy in her hand,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">They know not what to do.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She must have come whence zephyrs blow,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">From sprites’ or angels’ lands;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her heart is meet for God to know—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Oh, heaven is where she stands!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="GLADYS_MAY_CASELY_HAYFORD"> + GLADYS MAY CASELY HAYFORD + </h2> +</div> + +<p>“I was born at Axim on the African Gold Coast in 1904 on the 11th of +May to singularly cultured and intellectual parents, my mother being +one of the daughters of Judge Smith, the first Judge of the Excomission +Court of Sierra Leone, and my father being one of the three pioneer +lawyers of the Gold Coast.</p> + +<p>I am a Fanti, of the Fanti tribe which spreads from Axim right down the +Gold Coast, to Acera, and is subdivided into groups speaking different +dialects. It is said that the Acera branch, at one time, wandered +away from the main body and eventually arrived also at the sea coast, +speaking another tongue, but retaining the same customs.</p> + +<p>I spent five years in England, three of which were spent in school. I +went to Penrohs College, Colwyn Bay in Wales, and on my return home +became a school teacher in The Girls Vocational School, Sierra Leone.</p> + +<p>By twenty, I had the firm conviction that I was meant to write for +Africa. This was accentuated by the help which our boys and girls need +so much and fired by the determination to show those who are prejudiced +against colour, that we deny inferiority to them, spiritually, +intellectually and morally; and to prove it.</p> + +<p>I argued that the first thing to do, was to imbue our own people with +the idea of their own beauty, superiority and individuality, with a +love and admiration for our own country, which has been systematically +suppressed. Consequently <span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>I studied the beautiful points of Negro +physique, texture of skin, beauty of hair, soft sweetness of eyes, +charm of curves, so that none should think it a shame to be black, but +rather a glorious adventure.”</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">NATIVITY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Within a native hut, ere stirred the dawn,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Unto the Pure One was an Infant born</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wrapped in blue lappah that his mother dyed.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Laid on his father’s home-tanned deer-skin hide</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The babe still slept by all things glorified.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Spirits of black bards burst their bonds and sang,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Peace upon earth” until the heavens rang.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All the black babies who from earth had fled,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Peeped through the clouds, then gathered round His head.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Telling of things a baby needs to do,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When first he opens his eyes on wonders new;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Telling Him that to sleep was sweeter rest,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All comfort came from His black mother’s breast.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Their gifts were of Love caught from the springing sod,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whilst tears and laughter were the gifts of God.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then all the wise men of the past stood forth</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Filling the air East, West, and South and North;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And told him of the joys that wisdom brings</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To mortals in their earthly wanderings.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The children of the past shook down each bough,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wreathed Frangepani blossoms for His brow;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They put pink lilies in His mother’s hand,</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And heaped for both the first fruits of the land.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His father cut some palm fronds that the air</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Be coaxed to zephyrs while He rested there.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Birds trilled their hallelujahs; and the dew</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Trembled with laughter till the babe laughed too.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All the black women brought their love so wise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And kissed their motherhood into his mother’s eyes.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p class="hanging-indent1">Note: lappah—a straight woven cloth tied round the waist to form a +skirt.<br> + +Frangepani—An African flower.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="ph3">RAINY SEASON LOVE SONG</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Out of the tense awed darkness, my Frangepani comes;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whilst the blades of Heaven flash round her, and the roll of thunder drums</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My young heart leaps and dances, with exquisite joy and pain,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As storms within and storms without I meet my love in the rain.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The rain is in love with you darling; it’s kissing you everywhere,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Rain pattering over your small brown feet, rain in your curly hair;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Rain in the vale that your twin breasts make, as in delicate mounds they rise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I hope there is rain in your heart, Frangepani, as rain half fills your eyes.”</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Into my hands she cometh, and the lightning of my desire</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Flashes and leaps about her, more subtle than Heaven’s fire;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The lightning’s in love with you darling; it is loving you so much,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That its warm electricity in you pulses wherever I may touch.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When I kiss your lips and your eyes, and your hands like twin flowers apart,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know there is lightning, Frangepani, deep in the depths of your heart.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The thunder rumbles about us, and I feel its triumphant note</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As your warm arms steal around me; and I kiss your dusky throat;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The thunder’s in love with you darling. It hides its power in your breast.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I feel it stealing o’er me as I lie in your arms at rest.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I sometimes wonder, beloved, when I drink from life’s proffered bowl,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Whether there’s thunder hidden in the innermost parts of your soul.”</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Out of my arms she stealeth; and I am left alone with the night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Void of all sounds save peace, the first faint glimmer of light.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Into the quiet, hushed stillness my Frangepani goes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is there peace within like the peace without? Only the darkness knows.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE SERVING GIRL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The calabash wherein she served my food,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was smooth and polished as sandalwood:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fish, as white as the foam of the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Peppered, and golden fried for me.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She brought palm wine that carelessly slips</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From the sleeping palm tree’s honeyed lips.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But who can guess, or even surmise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The countless things she served with her eyes?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">BABY COBINA</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">Brown Baby Cobina</span>, with his large black velvet eyes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">His little coos of ecstacies, his gurgling of surprise,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With brass bells on his ankles, that laugh where’er he goes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It’s so rare for bells to tinkle, above brown dimpled toes.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><span class="smcap">Brown Baby Cobina</span> is so precious that we fear</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Something might come and steal him, when we grownups are not near;</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> <div class="verse indent0">So we tied bells on his ankles, and kissed on them this charm—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Bells, guard our Baby Cobina from all devils and all harm.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LUCY_ARIEL_WILLIAMS"> + LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Lucy Ariel Williams was born in Mobile, Alabama, March 3, 1905. Her +parents, Dr. and Mrs. H. Roger Williams surrounded her with the +aesthetic and cultural environment usually given the only daughters +in professional homes in the South. Miss Williams is well known as a +modiste, poet and extremely talented pianist. Her early training was +acquired at Emerson Institute, Mobile, Alabama. Later she was graduated +from Talladega College and Fisk University, after which she attended +Oberlin Conservatory of Music, Oberlin, Ohio. Although a first year +student there, she received third year classification, being the +first member of her race to be so honored. Her work has appeared in +<i>Opportunity</i> and other journals. Her poem “Northboun’” received +first prize in the <i>Opportunity</i> contest for 1926.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">NORTHBOUN’</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">H’it’s one long strip</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hangin’ up an’ down—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jes’ Souf an’ Norf;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jes’ Norf an’ Souf.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Talkin’ ’bout sailin’ ’round de wurl’—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Huh! I’d be so dizzy my head ’ud twurl.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">If dis heah earf wuz jes’ a ball</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You no the people all ’ud fall.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">H’it’s one long strip</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hangin’ up an’ down—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jes’ Souf an’ Norf;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jes’ Norf an’ Souf.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Talkin’ ’bout the City whut Saint John saw—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Chile you oughta go to Saginaw;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A nigger’s chance is “finest kind,”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ pretty gals ain’t hard to find.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Huh! de wurl’ ain’t flat,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ de wurl’ ain’t roun’,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jes’ one long strip</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hangin’ up an’ down.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Since Norf is up,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ Souf is down,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">An’ Hebben is up,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’m upward boun’.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="GEORGE_LEONARD_ALLEN"> + GEORGE LEONARD ALLEN + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I was born in Lumberton, North Carolina, September 10, 1905. My +parents, Professor and Mrs. D. P. Allen, were then in charge of Whitin +Normal School, a thriving secondary school which was discontinued at my +father’s death some ten years ago.</p> + +<p>My high school days were spent at Redstone Academy, located at +Lumberton. I can think of nothing of interest to mention concerning +this period, except that I was an omnivorous reader, and learned to +love literature, and especially poetry, with a passionate intensity.</p> + +<p>Four years of college at Johnson C. Smith University followed, during +which time I studied a little, read a great deal, and dabbled in music +and literature. Among other things, I experimented with the piano +enough to become a fairly advanced performer.</p> + +<p>It was during my stay at college that my longing to become a writer +grew particularly ardent. A good many of my literary attempts saw +the light in school and local periodicals, some bringing encouraging +comment. In June of 1926, I was graduated, having been chosen as +valedictorian for that year.</p> + +<p>I feel it necessary to mention here that my college career was made +possible mainly through the sacrifices of my noble and devoted mother.</p> + +<p>In the past winter I was engaged in teaching at Kendall Institute +in Sumter, S. C. During this time some of my work appeared in +<i>Opportunity</i>, <i>American Life</i>, <i>The Southwestern Christian +Advocate</i>, and <i>The Lyric West</i>.</p> + +<p>This year one of my poems, “To Melody,” was awarded the prize for the +best sonnet in a state-wide contest conducted by the United Daughters +of the Confederacy (North Carolina Division).</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">TO MELODY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I think that man hath made no beauteous thing</div> + <div class="verse indent0">More lovely than a glorious melody</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That soars aloft in splendor, full and free,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And graceful as a swallow on the wing!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A melody that seems to move, and sing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And quiver, in its radiant ecstasy,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That bends and rises like a slender tree</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which sways before the gentle winds of Spring!</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, men will ever love thee, holy art!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For thou, of all the blessings God hath given,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Canst best revive and cheer the wounded heart</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And nearest bring the weary soul to Heaven!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of all God’s precious gifts, it seems to me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The choicest is the gift of melody.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">PORTRAIT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Like sylvan lakes that lie</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In some sequestered forest glade</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Beneath a starry sky.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Her cheeks? The ripened chestnut’s hue,—</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Rich autumn’s sun-kissed brown!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Caressed by sunbeams dancing through</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Red leaves that flutter down.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Her form? A slender pine that sways</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Before the murmuring breeze</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In summer, when the south wind plays</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Soft music through the trees.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Herself? A laughing, joyous sprite</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Who smiles from dawn till dark,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">As lovely as a summer night</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And carefree as a lark.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="RICHARD_BRUCE"> + RICHARD BRUCE + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I was born in Washington, D. C., on the second of July, 1906, and have +never ceased to marvel at the fact. After attending public school with +very good marks (I was thrashed if I did not lead my class), I attended +Dunbar High School of the same city. When I was thirteen my father +died, my greatest impression being the crowded church and the vault. +Mother left Washington for New York where my brother and I joined her +in a few months. New York was an adventure and still is. A glorious +something torn from a novel. Even the first hard winter with mother ill +and my feet on the ground was just a part of it. My gathering bits of +fur to paste on newspaper to cut out for inner soles for my shoes, the +walking to work to save carfare, and getting lunch as best I could, +all seemed romantic and highly colored. Weren’t there theatres and +lights, Broadway, Fifth Avenue ... and lights? Noise and bustle and +high silk hats and flowers in pots in the Bowery. Hobble cars creeping +like caterpillars up Broadway. Taxis and people and forty-second +street. Traffic towers and tall buildings. Wasn’t this New York? A +year later I discovered Harlem. I was at that time <span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>an art apprentice +at seven fifty a week. But that was too little money. So I became in +turn errand boy for ten dollars, bell hop in an all-women’s hotel for +eleven fifty-five, eighteen with tips, secretary and confidence man +for a modiste for twenty-five, ornamental iron-worker and designer for +twenty-eight, and elevator operator for thirty. Then I had the mumps +and despite the glamor of New York, I wanted to go, just go somewhere. +So I went to Panama working my way. Then New York again and a costume +design class. A visit home to D. C. where I met Langston Hughes. +<i>Opportunity</i> accepted my first poem. Washington for eleven months +then New York again. I arrived penniless and have remained so. Dilatory +jobs, trips to New England, Florida, California and Canada, but always +New York again. The few drawings and sketches made on these trips +were either destroyed, lost, or given away en route. I began to write +seriously and to paint just as seriously; I entered contests but never +won. I am still penniless and happy and planning to go to Paris and +Vienna by hook or crook.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">SHADOW</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Silhouette</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the face of the moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Am I.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A dark shadow in the light.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A silhouette am I</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the face of the moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lacking color</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Or vivid brightness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But defined all the clearer</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Because</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am dark,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Black on the face of the moon.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A shadow am I</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Growing in the light,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Not understood as is the day,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But more easily seen</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Because</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am a shadow in the light.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">CAVALIER</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Slay fowl and beast; pluck clean the vine,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Prepare the feast and pearl the wine.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bring on the best! Bring on the bard,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bring on the rest. Let nought retard</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Nor yet distress with putrid breath,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">My new mistress, My Lady Death.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WARING_CUNEY"> + WARING CUNEY + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Waring Cuney was born in Washington, D. C., May 6, 1906. He received +his education in the public schools of that city and at Howard +University. Later he attended Lincoln University, and while there +sang in the Glee Club and the quartet. His work with these groups +encouraged him to study music and he is now studying voice at the New +England Conservatory of Music in Boston. His first published poem was +“No Images” which won first award in the <i>Opportunity</i> contest +of 1926. Since then he <span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span>has continued to write and his poems have +appeared in <i>Opportunity</i>, Braithwaite’s <i>Anthology</i>, <i>The +Forum</i>, and <i>Palms</i>.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">THE DEATH BED</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">All the time they were praying</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He watched the shadow of a tree</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Flicker on the wall.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There is no need of prayer,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He said,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No need at all.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The kin-folk thought it strange</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That he should ask them from a dying bed.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But they left all in a row</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And it seemed to ease him</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To see them go.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There were some who kept on praying</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In a room across the hall</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And some who listened to the breeze</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That made the shadows waver</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the wall.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">He tried his nerve</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On a song he knew</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And made an empty note</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> <div class="verse indent0">That might have come,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">From a bird’s harsh throat.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And all the time it worried him</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That they were in there praying</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And all the time he wondered</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What it was they could be saying.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">A TRIVIALITY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Not to dance with her</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was such a trivial thing</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There were girls more fair than she,—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To-day</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ten girls dressed in white.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Each had a white rose wreath.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">They made a dead man’s arch</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And ten strong men</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Carried a body through.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Not to dance with her</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was a trivial thing.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">I THINK I SEE HIM THERE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I think I see Him there</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With a stern dream on his face</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">I see Him there—</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Wishing they would hurry</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The last nail in place.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And I wonder, had I been there,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Would I have doubted too</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Or would the dream have told me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What this man speaks is true.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">DUST</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Through which</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Proud blood</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Once flowed.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Where a civilization</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Flourished.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The Valley of the Nile,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust,</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You proud ones, proud of the skill</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With which you play this game—Civilization;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Do not forget that it is a very old game.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Men used to play it on the banks</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the Tigris and the Euphrates</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When the world was a wilderness.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There is a circle around China</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where once a wall stood.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Carthage is a heap of ashes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And Rome knew the pomp and glory</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You know now.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The Coliseum tells a story</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The Woolworth Building may repeat.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pharaohs and their armies sleep there.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Shall it stir again?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Will Pharaohs rise and rule</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And their armies march once more?</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Civilization continually shifts</i></div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Upon the places of the earth.</i></div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">NO IMAGES</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She does not know</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her beauty,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She thinks her brown body</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Has no glory.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">If she could dance</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Naked,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Under palm trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And see her image in the river</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She would know.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">But there are no palm trees</div> + <div class="verse indent0">On the street,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And dish water gives back no images.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE RADICAL</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Men never know</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What they are doing.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They always make a muddle</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of their affairs,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They always tie their affairs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into a knot</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They cannot untie.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Then I come in</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Uninvited.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> <div class="verse indent0">They do not ask me in;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I am the radical,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The bomb thrower,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I untie the knot</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That they have made,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And they never thank me.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">TRUE LOVE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Her love is true I know,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Much more true</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Than angel’s love;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For angels love in heaven</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where a thousand harps</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are playing.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">She loves in a tenement</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where the only music</div> + <div class="verse indent0">She hears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is the cry of street car brakes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the toot of automobile horns</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the drip of a kitchen spigot</div> + <div class="verse indent0">All day.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her love is true I know.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="EDWARD_S_SILVERA"> + EDWARD S. SILVERA + </h2> +</div> + +<p>I was born in Florida in the year 1906—moved to Orange, N. J., at an +early age—graduated from Orange <span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>High School in 1924—am now a Junior +at Lincoln University, Pennsylvania. Here I am a member of the varsity +basket-ball and tennis teams and a member of Kappa Alpha Psi Fraternity.</p> + +<p>I get a great deal of pleasure out of observing life and then writing +about it just as I see it.</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">SOUTH STREET</p> + +<p class="ph3">(Philadelphia, Pa.)</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">South Street is not beautiful,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But the songs of people there</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hold the beauty of the jungle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the fervidness of prayer.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">South Street has no mansions,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But the hands of South Street men</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Built pyramids along the Nile</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That Time has failed to rend.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">South Street is America,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Breast of the foster mother</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Where a thousand ill-kept children</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Vie for suck, with one another.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">JUNGLE TASTE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There is a coarseness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the songs of black men</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Coarse as the songs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">There is a weird strangeness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the songs of black men</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which sounds not strange</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To me.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">There is beauty</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the faces of black women,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Jungle beauty</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And mystery</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dark hidden beauty</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the faces of black women,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which only black men</div> + <div class="verse indent0">See.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="HELENE_JOHNSON"> + HELENE JOHNSON + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Helene Johnson was born twenty years ago in Boston, Mass., where she +received her early education and attended Boston University for a short +time. A year ago she came to New York to attend the Extension Division +of Columbia University. Her work has appeared in <i>Opportunity</i>, +<i>Vanity Fair</i> and several New York dailies; and has been reprinted +in <i>Palms</i>, <i>The Literary Digest</i>, and Braithwaite’s +<i>Anthology</i>.</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">WHAT DO I CARE FOR MORNING</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">What do I care for morning,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For a shivering aspen tree,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For sun flowers and sumac</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Opening greedily?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What do I care for morning,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For the glare of the rising sun,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For a sparrow’s noisy prating,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For another day begun?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give me the beauty of evening,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The cool consummation of night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the moon like a love-sick lady,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Listless and wan and white.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give me a little valley</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Huddled beside a hill,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like a monk in a monastery,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Safe and contented and still,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Give me the white road glistening,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A strand of the pale moon’s hair,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the tall hemlocks towering</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dark as the moon is fair.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh what do I care for morning,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Naked and newly born—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Night is here, yielding and tender—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">What do I care for dawn!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">SONNET TO A NEGRO IN HARLEM</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">You are disdainful and magnificent—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your perfect body and your pompous gait,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your dark eyes flashing solemnly with hate,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Small wonder that you are incompetent</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To imitate those whom you so despise—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your shoulders towering high above the throng,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your head thrown back in rich, barbaric song,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Palm trees and mangoes stretched before your eyes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Let others toil and sweat for labor’s sake</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And wring from grasping hands their meed of gold.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Why urge ahead your supercilious feet?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Scorn will efface each footprint that you make.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I love your laughter arrogant and bold.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You are too splendid for this city street!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">SUMMER MATURES</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Summer matures. Brilliant Scorpion</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Appears. The Pelican’s thick pouch</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hangs heavily with perch and slugs.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The brilliant-bellied newt flashes</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Its crimson crest in the white water.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the lush meadow, by the river,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The yellow-freckled toad laughs</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With a toothless gurgle at the white-necked stork</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Standing asleep on one red reedy leg.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> <div class="verse indent0">And here Pan dreams of slim stalks clean for piping,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And of a nightingale gone mad with freedom.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come. I shall weave a bed of reeds</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And willow limbs and pale nightflowers.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I shall strip the roses of their petals,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the white down from the swan’s neck.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come. Night is here. The air is drunk</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With wild grape and sweet clover.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And by the sacred fount of Aganippe</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Euterpe sings of love. Ah, the woodland creatures,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The doves in pairs, the wild sow and her shoats,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The stag searching the forest for a mate,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Know more of love than you, my callous Phaon.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The young moon is a curved white scimitar</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pierced thru the swooning night.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sweet Phaon. With Sappho sleep like the stars at dawn.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">This night was born for love, my Phaon.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Come.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">POEM</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Little brown boy,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Slim, dark, big-eyed,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Crooning love songs to your banjo</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Down at the Lafayette—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">High sort of and a bit to one side,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like a prince, a jazz prince. And I love</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Your eyes flashing, and your hands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And your patent-leathered feet,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And your shoulders jerking the jig-wa.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And I love your teeth flashing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the way your hair shines in the spotlight</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like it was the real stuff.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gee, brown boy, I loves you all over.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I’m glad I’m a jig. I’m glad I can</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Understand your dancin’ and your</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Singin’, and feel all the happiness</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And joy and don’t care in you.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gee, boy, when you sing, I can close my ears</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And hear tom toms just as plain.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Listen to me, will you, what do I know</div> + <div class="verse indent0">About tom toms? But I like the word, sort of,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Don’t you? It belongs to us.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gee, boy, I love the way you hold your head,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the way you sing, and dance,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And everything.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Say, I think you’re wonderful. You’re</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Allright with me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You are.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">FULFILLMENT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To climb a hill that hungers for the sky,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To dig my hands wrist deep in pregnant earth,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To watch a young bird, veering, learn to fly,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">To give a still, stark poem shining birth.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To hear the rain drool, dimpling, down the drain</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And splash with a wet giggle in the street,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To ramble in the twilight after supper,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And to count the pretty faces that you meet.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To ride to town on trolleys, crowded, teeming</div> + <div class="verse indent2">With joy and hurry and laughter and push and sweat—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Squeezed next a patent-leathered Negro dreaming</div> + <div class="verse indent2">Of a wrinkled river and a minnow net.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To buy a paper from a breathless boy,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And read of kings and queens in foreign lands,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hyperbole of romance and adventure,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">All for a penny the color of my hand.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To lean against a strong tree’s bosom, sentient</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And hushed before the silent prayer it breathes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To melt the still snow with my seething body</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And kiss the warm earth tremulous underneath.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, life, to let your stabbing beauty pierce me</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And wound me like we did the studded Christ,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To grapple with you, loving you too fiercely,</div> + <div class="verse indent2">And to die bleeding—consummate with Life.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE ROAD</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A leaping clay hill lost among the trees,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The bleeding note of rapture streaming thrush</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Caught in a drowsy hush</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And stretched out in a single singing line of dusky song.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Ah little road, brown as my race is brown,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Your trodden beauty like our trodden pride,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dust of the dust, they must not bruise you down.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Rise to one brimming golden, spilling cry!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">BOTTLED</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Upstairs on the third floor</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of the 135th Street library</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In Harlem, I saw a little</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Bottle of sand, brown sand</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just like the kids make pies</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Out of down at the beach.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But the label said: “This</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Sand was taken from the Sahara desert.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Imagine that! The Sahara desert!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Some bozo’s been all the way to Africa to get some sand.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">And yesterday on Seventh Avenue</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I saw a darky dressed fit to kill</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> <div class="verse indent0">In yellow gloves and swallow tail coat</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And swirling a cane. And everyone</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was laughing at him. Me too,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">At first, till I saw his face</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When he stopped to hear a</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Organ grinder grind out some jazz.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Boy! You should a seen that darky’s face!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">It just shone. Gee, he was happy!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And he began to dance. No</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Charleston or Black Bottom for him.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No sir. He danced just as dignified</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And slow. No, not slow either.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Dignified and <i>proud</i>! You couldn’t</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Call it slow, not with all the</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Cuttin’ up he did. You would a died to see him.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that cane</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And yellin’ out loud every once in a while.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But say, I was where I could see his face,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A real honest-to-cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t have on them</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Trick clothes—those yaller shoes and yaller gloves</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And swallow-tail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine point</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Like the bayonets we had “over there.”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> <div class="verse indent0">Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and gleaming.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And he’d have rings in his ears and on his nose</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bracelets and necklaces of elephants’ teeth.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">No one would laugh at him then, I bet.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desert</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything—all glass—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But inside—</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Gee, that poor shine!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">MAGALU</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Summer comes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The ziczac hovers</div> + <div class="verse indent0">’Round the greedy-mouthed crocodile.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A vulture bears away a foolish jackal.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The flamingo is a dash of pink</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Against dark green mangroves,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Her slender legs rivalling her slim neck.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The laughing lake gurgles delicious music in its throat</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And lulls to sleep the lazy lizard,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">A nebulous being on a sun-scorched rock.</div> +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> <div class="verse indent0">In such a place,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In this pulsing, riotous gasp of color,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I met Magalu, dark as a tree at night,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Eager-lipped, listening to a man with a white collar</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And a small black book with a cross on it.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Oh Magalu, come! Take my hand and I will read you poetry,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Chromatic words,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Seraphic symphonies,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Fill up your throat with laughter and your heart with song.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Do not let him lure you from your laughing waters,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Lulling lakes, lissome winds.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Would you sell the colors of your sunset and the fragrance</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Of your flowers, and the passionate wonder of your forest</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For a creed that will not let you dance?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="WESLEY_CURTWRIGHT"> + WESLEY CURTWRIGHT + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Wesley Curtwright was born in Brunswick, Georgia, on November 30, 1910, +but he knows as little about Georgia, perhaps, as about any state in +the South. Immediately after his father’s death in 1913, he began a +disjointed tour of the land. He has “broken out in spots” of a dozen +states both South and North, attending at intervals various schools. +He lives in New York at present and has lived there three years. He is +attending Harlem Academy, a small private school. He has contributed to +<i>Opportunity</i> and <i>The Messenger</i>.</p> +<br> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE CLOSE OF DAY</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“To meet and then to part,” and that is all,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To slowly turn an album’s crusty leaves,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To see the faces and the scenes recall,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Are things that in a lifetime one achieves.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">To wander down a broad-arch gallery,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Viewing the scenes from life on either side,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Pressed forward with the force of years to see</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But part of every picture when espied.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The big sun in its blue dome keeps its course,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Without a falter moves upon its way.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">So human life, returning to its source,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Is overtaken by the close of day.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">To dream, and being rudely waked from thought,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Return to peaceful dreaming dearly bought.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LULA_LOWE_WEEDEN"> + LULA LOWE WEEDEN + </h2> +</div> + +<p>Lula Lowe Weeden was born in Lynchburg, Va., Feb. 4, 1918. Her mother, +Mrs. Lula L. Weeden, herself a poet of ability, writes of this youngest +of Negro singers: “She is a very close observer. Each flower in my +garden she knows. Sometimes she counts each bloom, lingering over those +she likes most.</p> + +<p>“Each one of my children is very distinct in her make up. Lula is +quiet, sweet and unselfish, a decided contrast to the second. This +gives each a chance for moral development <span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>while trying to adjust her +little mind to the other. A few nights ago, Iola the second child +slapped Mary the baby. Lula said to Iola, ‘You are not being a good +citizen when you strike back even if Mary did slap you.’ Another time, +Iola was saying what her teacher had said about her. Lula remarked, ‘It +is not what she says you do, it is what you do do.’ Neither statement +meant much to Iola.</p> + +<p>“I have always mixed my night time stories with ‘Home spun ones.’ All +seem to like them best. I asked Lula since Christmas why she liked my +stories. She said because they seemed to be true, and criticized fairy +stories.</p> + +<p>“I have emphasized racial stories for this reason—I was born on a +big farm. There were many employed by my father, also tenants. With +these we were not allowed to mingle. On the edge of the farm there +was a white school. There was a barrier also. Those little girls with +golden locks looked like little angels to me. How I wished to be like +them with their shrill voices and laughter. They seemed so happy. I +just thought of them as things apart. It took much to get this false +conception out of me. They were just God sent. This I have tried not +to have my children to fight. Now neither one wishes to be white or +dislikes them. To them, they all seem like people.</p> + +<p>“Lula does most of her writing at night. It is a privilege to remain a +few minutes after the other children to finish something. Some nights +she will write several. She mumbles them to herself before she begins +to write and then keeps saying the words softly. She will finish this +and will draw figures and flowers or people. This she does very well +for a child until she says, ‘I am going to write something else.’ +Interruptions don’t seem to bother her very much as the little ones are +always saying something to make her laugh. I usually attempt to quiet +them, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>but some of her best things are written with many around.</p> + +<p>“When she shows them to me, she watches for a favorable expression. I +always try to be pleased, but somehow she knows from my face that that +was not so good, then remarks, ‘I am going to write something else.’</p> + +<p>“The amusing part about it all is that she feels as she has begun +to write at a mature age, but consoles herself with this statement, +‘Stevenson did not begin to write until he was fifteen and wrote very +skillful things.’</p> + +<p>“Lula is just a little girl and is very talkative if anyone appeals to +her and will talk with her. You can’t explain anything too minutely +for her—whether it is her Sunday school lesson or a star, it matters +little.”</p> +<br> +<p class="ph3">ME ALONE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">As I was going to town,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I saw a King and a Queen.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Such ringing of bells you never heard,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">The clerks ran out of the stores;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You know how it was, Me alone.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I was standing as the others were,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“Oh! you little girl,” some one said,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“The King wants you,”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I became frightened</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Wondering what he had to say,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Me alone.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Here’s what he wanted:</div> + <div class="verse indent0">He wanted me to ride in his coach,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I felt myself so much riding in a King’s coach,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Me alone.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">HAVE YOU SEEN IT</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you ever seen the moon</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And stars stick together?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you ever seen it?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you ever seen bad?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you ever seen good</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And bad stick together?</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Have you ever seen it?</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">ROBIN RED BREAST</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Little Robin red breast,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I hear you sing your song.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I would love to have you put it into my little cage,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Into my little mouth.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">THE STREAM</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">It was running down to the great Atlantic.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I called it back to me,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">But it slyly looked and said,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">“I have not time to waste,”</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And just went arunning running on.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> + +<p class="ph3">THE LITTLE DANDELION</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">The dandelion stares</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the yellow sunlight.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">How very still it is!</div> + <div class="verse indent0">When it is old and grey,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">I blow its white hair away,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">And leave it with a bald head.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="ph3">DANCE</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">Down at the hall at midnight sometimes,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">You hear them singing rhymes.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">These girls are dancing with boys.</div> + <div class="verse indent0">They are too big for toys.</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span></p> + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX"> + INDEX + </h2> +</div> + +<ul class="index"> + <li class="ifrst"><i>Absence</i>, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Across the dewy lawn she treads, <a href="#Page_195">195</a></li> + + <li class="indx">A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Advice</i>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a></li> + + <li class="indx">A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well, <a href="#Page_15">15</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Africa</i>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>After All</i>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>After the Quarrel</i>, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ah, how poets sing and die, <a href="#Page_50">50</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ah, I know what happiness is, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ah, little road all whirry in the breeze, <a href="#Page_221">221</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Ah, you are cruel, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Alexander, Lewis</span>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Allen, George Leonard</span>, <a href="#Page_203">203</a></li> + + <li class="indx">All that night I walked alone and wept, <a href="#Page_169">169</a></li> + + <li class="indx">All the time they were praying, <a href="#Page_208">208</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, <a href="#Page_83">83</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Always at dusk, the same tearless experience, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>America</i>, <a href="#Page_83">83</a></li> + + <li class="indx">And God stepped out on space, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>And What Shall You Say?</i>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>April Day, An</i>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">A silence slipping around like death, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + + <li class="indx">As I was going to town, <a href="#Page_227">227</a></li> + + <li class="indx">A tree is more than a shadow, <a href="#Page_170">170</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>At the Carnival</i>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Auf Wiedersehen</i>, <a href="#Page_189">189</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Baby Cobina</i>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Baker’s Boy, The</i>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Band of Gideon, The</i>, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Beat the drums of tragedy for me, <a href="#Page_148">148</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Bennett, Gwendolyn B.</span>, <a href="#Page_153">153</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Black Madonna, The</i>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Black Man Talks of Reaping, A</i>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Black reapers with the sound of steel on stone, <a href="#Page_94">94</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Blight</i>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold, <a href="#Page_99">99</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Bontemps, Arna</span>, <a href="#Page_162">162</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Bottled</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Bow down my soul in worship very low, <a href="#Page_87">87</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Braithwaite, William Stanley</span>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Brooks, Jonathan Henderson</span>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Brother, come, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Brother to the firefly, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Brown, Sterling A.</span>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Brown Baby Cobina, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Bruce, Richard</span>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Brushes and paints are all I have, <a href="#Page_155">155</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Cavalier</i>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Cemeteries are places for departed souls, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Challenge</i>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Chilled into a serenity, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Close of Day, The</i>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Close Your Eyes</i>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Come, brother, come. Let’s lift it, <a href="#Page_97">97</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Confession</i>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Consider me a memory, a dream that passed away, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Cotter, Joseph S., Sr.</span>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Cotter, Joseph S., Jr.</span>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Cotton Song</i>, <a href="#Page_97">97</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></li> + + <li class="indx">Could I but retrace, <a href="#Page_125">125</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Creation, The</i>, <a href="#Page_19">19</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Creed</i>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Cullen, Countee</span>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Cuney, Waring</span>, <a href="#Page_207">207</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Curtwright, Wesley</span>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Dance</i>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dark Brother, The</i>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Day and Night</i>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Day-breakers, The</i>, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dear, when we sit in that high, placid room, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Death Bed, The</i>, <a href="#Page_208">208</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Death Song</i>, <a href="#Page_4">4</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Debt, The</i>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Delany, Clarissa Scott</span>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Del Cascar</i>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx">De railroad bridge’s a sad song, <a href="#Page_147">147</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Deserter, The</i>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Desolate</i>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Dickinson, Blanche Taylor</span>, <a href="#Page_105">105</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Down at the hall at midnight sometimes, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dream Variation</i>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dreams of the Dreamer, The</i>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Du Bois, William Edward Burghardt</span>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Dunbar, Paul Laurence</span>, <a href="#Page_1">1</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dunbar</i>, <a href="#Page_50">50</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dusk</i>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Dust</i>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Dust, through which proud blood once flowed, <a href="#Page_210">210</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes</i>, <a href="#Page_2">2</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Evening Song</i>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Exhortation: Summer, 1919</i>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Eyes of My Regret, The</i>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Face</i>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Fantasy</i>, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Fantasy in Purple</i>, <a href="#Page_148">148</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Father John’s bread was made of rye, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Fauset, Jessie</span>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa, <a href="#Page_52">52</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Flame-Heart</i>, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>For the Candle Light</i>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li> + + <li class="indx">For this peculiar tint that paints my house, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Four Epitaphs</i>, <a href="#Page_186">186</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Four great walls have hemmed me in, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Four Walls</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Fragment</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue, <a href="#Page_75">75</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>From the Dark Tower</i>, <a href="#Page_183">183</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>From the German of Uhland</i>, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Fulfillment</i>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Full moon rising on the waters of my heart, <a href="#Page_94">94</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst">Gay little Girl-of-the-Diving-Tank, <a href="#Page_53">53</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Georgia Dusk</i>, <a href="#Page_95">95</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Gethsemane</i>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Give over to high things the fervent thought, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Glory of the Day Was in Her Face, The</i>, <a href="#Page_18">18</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>God Give to Men</i>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a></li> + + <li class="indx">God give the yellow man, <a href="#Page_172">172</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Golgotha Is a Mountain</i>, <a href="#Page_173">173</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Go through the gates with closed eyes, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Grass Fingers</i>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Greenness</i>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Grimké, Angelina Weld</span>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst">Hair—silver-gray, like streams of stars, <a href="#Page_98">98</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Hatred</i>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Have you ever seen the moon, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Have You Seen It</i>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Hayes, Donald Jeffrey</span>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Hayford, Gladys May Casely</span>, <a href="#Page_196">196</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Heart of a Woman, The</i>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + + <li class="indx">He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade, <a href="#Page_204">204</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Her love is true I know, <a href="#Page_213">213</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></li> + + <li class="indx">He scans the world with calm and fearless eyes, <a href="#Page_34">34</a></li> + + <li class="indx">He wrote upon his heart, <a href="#Page_188">188</a></li> + + <li class="indx">His friends went off and left Him dead, <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Homesick Blues</i>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Homing</i>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Hope</i>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Horne, Frank</span>, <a href="#Page_111">111</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>House in Taos, A</i>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a></li> + + <li class="indx">How did it happen that we quarreled? <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Hughes, Langston</span>, <a href="#Page_144">144</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Hushed by the Hands of Sleep</i>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst">I am so tired and weary, <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I ask you this, <a href="#Page_146">146</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I buried you deeper last night, <a href="#Page_113">113</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I cannot hold my peace, John Keats, <a href="#Page_184">184</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I do not ask for love, ah! no, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I doubt not God is good, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I had no thought of violets of late, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>I Have a Friend</i>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>I Have a Rendezvous with Life</i>, <a href="#Page_180">180</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I have gone back in boyish wonderment, <a href="#Page_139">139</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I have seen a lovely thing, <a href="#Page_170">170</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I have sown beside all waters in my day, <a href="#Page_165">165</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I have the greatest fun at night, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I kissed a kiss in youth, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I know not why or whence he came, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I know what the caged bird feels, alas! <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I laks yo’ kin’ of lovin’, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I long not now, <a href="#Page_181">181</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I love you for your brownness, <a href="#Page_157">157</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I love your hands, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I return the bitterness, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I said, in drunken pride of youth and you, <a href="#Page_138">138</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I sailed in my dreams to the Land of Night, <a href="#Page_158">158</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I see in your eyes, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I shall come this way again, <a href="#Page_189">189</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I shall hate you, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I shall make a song like your hair, <a href="#Page_155">155</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I should like to creep, <a href="#Page_42">42</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>I Sit and Sew</i>, <a href="#Page_73">73</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I that had found the way so smooth, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>I Think I See Him There</i>, <a href="#Page_210">210</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I think that man hath, <a href="#Page_204">204</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I thought I saw an angel flying low, <a href="#Page_166">166</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>I Too</i>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>I Want to Die While You Love Me</i>, <a href="#Page_78">78</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>I Weep</i>, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I went to court last night, <a href="#Page_63">63</a></li> + + <li class="indx">If I have run my course and seek the pearls, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> + + <li class="indx">If my garden oak spares one bare ledge, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I’m folding up my little dreams, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Incident</i>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Innocence</i>, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Inscription</i>, <a href="#Page_188">188</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Interim</i>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a></li> + + <li class="indx">In wintertime I have such fun, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Is Life itself but many ways of thought, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li> + + <li class="indx">It crawled away ’neath my feet, <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> + + <li class="indx">It is fitting that you be here, <a href="#Page_112">112</a></li> + + <li class="indx">It was running down to the great Atlantic, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx">I’ve known rivers, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Japanese Hokku</i>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Jericho is on the inside, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Johnson, Fenton</span>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Johnson, Georgia Douglas</span>, <a href="#Page_74">74</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Johnson, Helene</span>, <a href="#Page_215">215</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Johnson, James Weldon</span>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Joy</i>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Joy shakes me like the wind that lifts a sail, <a href="#Page_140">140</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Jungle Taste</i>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst">Lady, my lady, come from out the garden, <a href="#Page_136">136</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Lancelot</i>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Last Quarter Moon of the Dying Year, The</i>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>La Vie C’est La Vie</i>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, <a href="#Page_4">4</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lemme be wid Casey Jones, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Length of Moon</i>, <a href="#Page_168">168</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Lethe</i>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Let me learn now where Beauty is, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Letters Found Near a Suicide</i>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Life</i>, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Life-Long, Poor Browning</i>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Lines to a Nasturtium</i>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Lines Written at the Grave of Alexander Dumas</i>, <a href="#Page_159">159</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Litany of Atlanta, A</i>, <a href="#Page_26">26</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Little black boy, <a href="#Page_120">120</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Little brown boy, <a href="#Page_218">218</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Little Dandelion, The</i>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Little Robin red breast, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Little Son</i>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“Lo, I am black but I am comely too,” <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Lolotte, who attires my hair, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Long Gone</i>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Long have I beat with timid hands, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Magalu</i>, <a href="#Page_223">223</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Marathon Runner, The</i>, <a href="#Page_64">64</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mask, The</i>, <a href="#Page_143">143</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Matheus, John Frederick</span>, <a href="#Page_60">60</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Maumee Ruth</i>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">McCall, James Edward</span>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">McKay, Claude</span>, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Me Alone</i>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Men never know, <a href="#Page_212">212</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Might as well bury her, <a href="#Page_133">133</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mona Lisa, A</i>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Morning Light</i>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Mother to Son</i>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>My City</i>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li> + + <li class="indx">My heart that was so passionless, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>My House</i>, <a href="#Page_92">92</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>My Little Dreams</i>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx">My little stone, <a href="#Page_114">114</a></li> + + <li class="indx">My spirit is a pestilential city, <a href="#Page_88">88</a></li> + + <li class="indx">My window opens out into the trees, <a href="#Page_141">141</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Nativity</i>, <a href="#Page_197">197</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Negro Speaks of Rivers, The</i>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Negro Woman</i>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Neighbors</i>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Nelson, Alice Dunbar</span>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>New Negro, The</i>, <a href="#Page_34">34</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Newsome, Mary Effie Lee</span>, <a href="#Page_55">55</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Nigger</i>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Night</i>, <a href="#Page_189">189</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Night like purple flakes of snow, <a href="#Page_189">189</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Noblesse Oblige</i>, <a href="#Page_67">67</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Nocturne</i>, <a href="#Page_190">190</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Nocturne at Bethesda</i>, <a href="#Page_166">166</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>No Images</i>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Northboun’</i>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Not as the white nations, <a href="#Page_177">177</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Not to dance with her, <a href="#Page_209">209</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>November Cotton Flower</i>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst">O apple blossoms, <a href="#Page_127">127</a></li> + + <li class="indx">O brothers mine, take care! Take care!, <a href="#Page_22">22</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>October XXIX, 1795</i>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">O’ de wurl’ ain’t flat, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Odyssey of Big Boy</i>, <a href="#Page_130">130</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Oh, the blue, blue bloom, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Old Black Men</i>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Once more, listening to the wind and rain, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Once riding in old Baltimore, <a href="#Page_187">187</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>On Seeing Two Brown Boys in a Catholic Church</i>, <a href="#Page_112">112</a></li> + + <li class="indx">On such a day as this I think, <a href="#Page_102">102</a></li> + + <li class="indx">On summer afternoons I sit, <a href="#Page_69">69</a></li> + + <li class="indx">On the dusty earth-drum, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li> + + <li class="indx">O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar, <a href="#Page_26">26</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Out in the sky the great clouds are massing, <a href="#Page_7">7</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Out of the tense awed darkness, <a href="#Page_198">198</a></li> + + <li class="indx">O you would clothe me in silken frocks, <a href="#Page_87">87</a></li> + + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Paean</i>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Pansy</i>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Paradox</i>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Poem</i>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Poem</i>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Poem</i>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Portrait</i>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Pour O pour that parting soul in song, <a href="#Page_96">96</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Prayer</i>, <a href="#Page_146">146</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Protest</i>, <a href="#Page_181">181</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Proving</i>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Puck Goes to Court</i>, <a href="#Page_63">63</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Puppet Player, The</i>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Quatrains</i>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Questing</i>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Quilt, The</i>, <a href="#Page_58">58</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Quoits</i>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Radical, The</i>, <a href="#Page_212">212</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Rain Music</i>, <a href="#Page_100">100</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Rainy Season Love Song</i>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Reapers</i>, <a href="#Page_94">94</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Recessional</i>, <a href="#Page_79">79</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Rencontre</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Requiem</i>, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Resurrection, The</i>, <a href="#Page_193">193</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Return</i>, <a href="#Page_139">139</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Return, The</i>, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Return, The</i>, <a href="#Page_163">163</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Revelation</i>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Rice, Albert</span>, <a href="#Page_176">176</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Road, The</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Robin Red Breast</i>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Russian Cathedral</i>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Rye Bread</i>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Salutamus</i>, <a href="#Page_138">138</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sassafras Tea</i>, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Scintilla</i>, <a href="#Page_31">31</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Secret</i>, <a href="#Page_155">155</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Service</i>, <a href="#Page_75">75</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Serving Girl, The</i>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Shadow</i>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a></li> + + <li class="indx">She does not know, <a href="#Page_212">212</a></li> + + <li class="indx">She kneeled before me begging, <a href="#Page_190">190</a></li> + + <li class="indx">She tripped and fell against a star, <a href="#Page_51">51</a></li> + + <li class="indx">She walked along the crowded street, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></li> + + <li class="indx">She wears, my beloved, a rose upon her head, <a href="#Page_61">61</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Ships That Pass in the Night</i>, <a href="#Page_7">7</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Silhouette on the face of the moon, <a href="#Page_206">206</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Silvera, Edward S.</span>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sky Pictures</i>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Slay fowl and beast; pluck clean the vine, <a href="#Page_207">207</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Snow in October</i>, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + + <li class="indx">So detached and cool she is, <a href="#Page_143">143</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Softly blow lightly, <a href="#Page_190">190</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Solace</i>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Some things are very dear to me, <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sometimes a right white mountain, <a href="#Page_57">57</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sometimes it seems as though some puppet player, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + + <li class="indx">So much have I forgotten in ten years, <a href="#Page_85">85</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Song for a Dark Girl</i>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Song of the Son</i>, <a href="#Page_96">96</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonnet</i>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonnet</i>, <a href="#Page_160">160</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonnet</i>, <a href="#Page_161">161</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem</i>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>South Street</i>, <a href="#Page_214">214</a></li> + + <li class="indx">So we, who’ve supped the self-same cup, <a href="#Page_5">5</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Spencer, Anne</span>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Stream, The</i>, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Substitution</i>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Suicide’s Note</i>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Summer comes, <a href="#Page_223">223</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Summer Matures</i>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Suppliant, The</i>, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Supplication</i>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Surrender</i>, <a href="#Page_38">38</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Sweet timber land, <a href="#Page_172">172</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Sympathy</i>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Tanka</i>, <a href="#Page_125">125</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Tell me is there anything lovelier, <a href="#Page_36">36</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Tenebris</i>, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>That Hill</i>, <a href="#Page_109">109</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The baker’s boy delivers loaves, <a href="#Page_58">58</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span></li> + + <li class="indx">The band of Gideon roam the sky, <a href="#Page_103">103</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The bitterness of days like these we know, <a href="#Page_138">138</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The breath of life imbued those few dim days, <a href="#Page_70">70</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The calabash wherein she served my food, <a href="#Page_200">200</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The calm, <a href="#Page_151">151</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The dandelion stares, <a href="#Page_229">229</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The day is a Negro, <a href="#Page_129">129</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The fruit of the orchard is over-ripe, Elaine, <a href="#Page_169">169</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, <a href="#Page_81">81</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The hills are wroth; the stones have scored, <a href="#Page_165">165</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The night is beautiful, <a href="#Page_150">150</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The night was made for rest and sleep, <a href="#Page_142">142</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Then the golden hour, <a href="#Page_168">168</a></li> + + <li class="indx">There is a coarseness, <a href="#Page_214">214</a></li> + + <li class="indx">There is a tree, by day, <a href="#Page_40">40</a></li> + + <li class="indx">There was a man, <a href="#Page_11">11</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The sass’fras tea is red and clear, <a href="#Page_56">56</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The sky hangs heavy tonight, <a href="#Page_122">122</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue, <a href="#Page_95">95</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The sky was blue, so blue that day, <a href="#Page_45">45</a></li> + + <li class="indx">The very acme of my woe, <a href="#Page_76">76</a></li> + + <li class="indx">They have dreamed as young men dream, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">This is the debt I pay, <a href="#Page_9">9</a></li> + + <li class="indx">This lovely flower fell to seed, <a href="#Page_186">186</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Thou art not dead, although the spoiler’s hand, <a href="#Page_123">123</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Three students once tarried over the Rhine, <a href="#Page_17">17</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Through the pregnant universe, <a href="#Page_84">84</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Thunder of the Rain God, <a href="#Page_152">152</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Time sitting on the throne of Memory, <a href="#Page_32">32</a></li> + + <li class="indx">’Tis queer, it is, the ways to men, <a href="#Page_39">39</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To a Certain Lady, in Her Garden</i>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To a Certain Woman</i>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To a Dark Girl</i>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To an Icicle</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To a Persistent Phantom</i>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To a Young Girl Leaving the Hill Country</i>, <a href="#Page_165">165</a></li> + + <li class="indx">To climb a hill that hungers for the sky, <a href="#Page_219">219</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty, <a href="#Page_71">71</a></li> + + <li class="indx">To fling my arms wide, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To John Keats, Poet, at Springtime</i>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To Lovers of Earth: Fair Warning</i>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></li> + + <li class="indx">“To meet and then to part,” <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>To Melody</i>, <a href="#Page_204">204</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Toomer, Jean</span>, <a href="#Page_93">93</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Touché</i>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Touch me, touch me, <a href="#Page_38">38</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Tragedy of Pete, The</i>, <a href="#Page_11">11</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Transformation</i>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Tree Design, A</i>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Triviality, A</i>, <a href="#Page_209">209</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>True Love</i>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Twin stars through my purpling pane, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst">Upstairs on the third floor, <a href="#Page_221">221</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Walls of Jericho, The</i>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Way down South in Dixie, <a href="#Page_147">147</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Way-side Well, The</i>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Ways o’ Men, The</i>, <a href="#Page_39">39</a></li> + + <li class="indx">We are not come to wage a strife, <a href="#Page_171">171</a></li> + + <li class="indx">We ask for peace. We, at the bound, <a href="#Page_38">38</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Weeden, Lula Lowe</span>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Well, son, I’ll tell you, <a href="#Page_151">151</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Were you a leper bathed in wounds, <a href="#Page_77">77</a></li> + + <li class="indx">We shall not always plant while others reap, <a href="#Page_183">183</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>We Wear the Mask</i>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>What Do I Care for Morning</i>, <a href="#Page_216">216</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>What Need Have I for Memory?</i>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></li> + + <li class="indx">What! Roses growing in the meadow, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li> + + <li class="indx">When face to face we stand, <a href="#Page_43">43</a></li> + + <li class="indx">When first you sang a song to me, <a href="#Page_157">157</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>When I am Dead</i>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a></li> + + <li class="indx">When I come down to sleep death’s endless night, <a href="#Page_25">25</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>When I Die</i>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>When the Green Lies Over the Earth</i>, <a href="#Page_41">41</a></li> + + <li class="indx">When we count out our gold at the end of the day, <a href="#Page_75">75</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>White Witch, The</i>, <a href="#Page_22">22</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Wild Goat, The</i>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Wild Roses</i>, <a href="#Page_59">59</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><span class="smcap">Williams, Lucy Ariel</span>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Winter Twilight, A</i>, <a href="#Page_46">46</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Within a native hut, <a href="#Page_197">197</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Words! Words!</i>, <a href="#Page_65">65</a></li> + + <li class="ifrst"><i>Yet Do I Marvel</i>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a></li> + + <li class="indx">You are disdainful and magnificent, <a href="#Page_217">217</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Your Hands</i>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a></li> + + <li class="indx"><i>Your Songs</i>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a></li> + + <li class="indx">Your words dropped into my heart, <a href="#Page_91">91</a></li> + + <li class="indx">You were a sophist, <a href="#Page_156">156</a></li> +</ul> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="tnote"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_note"> + Transcriber’s note + </h2> + + +<p>Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice.</p> + +<p>Page number references in the index are as published in the original +publication and have not been checked for accuracy in this eBook.</p> + +<p>Spelling was retained as in the original except for the following +changes:</p> + +<table class="autotable"> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_vi">vi</a>: “<i>No’thboun’</i> by Lucy Ariel”</td> +<td class="tdl">“<i>Northboun’</i> by Lucy Ariel”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page<a href="#Page_47"> 47</a>: “its so involved and”</td> +<td class="tdl">“it’s so involved and”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_66">66</a>: “TOUCHE”</td> +<td class="tdl">“TOUCHÉ”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_206">206</a>: “an all-womens’ hotel”</td> +<td class="tdl">“an all-women’s hotel”</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td class="tdl">Page <a href="#Page_230">230</a>: “Ah, little road”</td> +<td class="tdl">“Ah, little road all”</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76889 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76889-h/images/cover.jpg b/76889-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b514d5 --- /dev/null +++ b/76889-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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