Others

Rumors from an Aeolian Harp

There is a vale which none hath seen,
Where foot of man has never been,
Such as here lives with toil and strife,
An anxious and a sinful life.
There every virtue has its birth,
Ere it descends upon the earth,
And thither every deed returns,
Which in the generous bosom burns.


There love is warm, and youth is young,
And poetry is yet unsung.
For Virtue still adventures there,
And freely breathes her native air.


And ever, if you hearken well,
You still may hear its vesper bell,
And tread of high-souled men go by,
Their thoughts conversing with the sky.

Sic Vita

I am a parcel of vain strivings tied
By a chance bond together,
Dangling this way and that, their links
Were made so loose and wide,
Methinks,
For milder weather.


A bunch of violets without their roots,
And sorrel intermixed,
Encircled by a wisp of straw
Once coiled about their shoots,
The law
By which I'm fixed.


A nosegay which Time clutched from out
Those fair Elysian fields,
With weeds and broken stems, in haste,
Doth make the rabble rout
That waste
The day he yields.


And here I bloom for a short hour unseen,
Drinking my juices up,
With no root in the land
To keep my branches green,
But stand
In a bare cup.


Some tender buds were left upon my stem
In mimicry of life,
But ah! the children will not know,
Till time has withered them,
The woe
With which they're rife.


But now I see I was not plucked for naught,
And after in life's vase
Of glass set while I might survive,
But by a kind hand brought
Alive
To a strange place.


That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours,
And by another year,
Such as God knows, with freer air,
More fruits and fairer flowers
Will bear,
While I droop here.

Nature


O Nature! I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy choir, -
To be a meteor in thy sky,
Or comet that may range on high;
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by the river low;
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.


In some withdrawn, unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed,
Or in the woods, with leafy din,
Whisper the still evening in:
Some still work give me to do, -
Only - be it near to you!


For I'd rather be thy child
And pupil, in the forest wild,
Than be the king of men elsewhere,
And most sovereign slave of care;
To have one moment of thy dawn,
Than share the city's year forlorn.

Mist


Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the dasied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of the lake and seas and rivers,
Bear only purfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!

Low-Anchored Cloud

Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men's fields!

Inspiration


Whate'er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.


If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.


But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;


Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear--
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.


Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.


But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.


I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.


I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.


A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody--
Farther behind than they, farther within.


More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.


It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,



That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.


Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood's strength it is the flower,
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.


It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.


Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.


Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.


She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.


I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.


I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.


My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.


Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.


Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward


Who has his Maker's nod.

Inspiration


Whate'er we leave to God, God does,
And blesses us;
The work we choose should be our own,
God leaves alone.


If with light head erect I sing,
Though all the Muses lend their force,
From my poor love of anything,
The verse is weak and shallow as its source.


But if with bended neck I grope
Listening behind me for my wit,
With faith superior to hope,
More anxious to keep back than forward it;


Making my soul accomplice there
Unto the flame my heart hath lit,
Then will the verse forever wear--
Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.


Always the general show of things
Floats in review before my mind,
And such true love and reverence brings,
That sometimes I forget that I am blind.


But now there comes unsought, unseen,
Some clear divine electuary,
And I, who had but sensual been,
Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.


I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before,
I moments live, who lived but years,
And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.


I hear beyond the range of sound,
I see beyond the range of sight,
New earths and skies and seas around,
And in my day the sun doth pale his light.


A clear and ancient harmony
Pierces my soul through all its din,
As through its utmost melody--
Farther behind than they, farther within.


More swift its bolt than lightning is,
Its voice than thunder is more loud,
It doth expand my privacies
To all, and leave me single in the crowd.


It speaks with such authority,
With so serene and lofty tone,



That idle Time runs gadding by,
And leaves me with Eternity alone.


Now chiefly is my natal hour,
And only now my prime of life;
Of manhood's strength it is the flower,
'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.


It comes in summer's broadest noon,
By a grey wall or some chance place,
Unseasoning Time, insulting June,
And vexing day with its presuming face.


Such fragrance round my couch it makes,
More rich than are Arabian drugs,
That my soul scents its life and wakes
The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.


Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,
The star that guides our mortal course,
Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,
Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.


She with one breath attunes the spheres,
And also my poor human heart,
With one impulse propels the years
Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.


I will not doubt for evermore,
Nor falter from a steadfast faith,
For thought the system be turned o'er,
God takes not back the word which once He saith.


I will not doubt the love untold
Which not my worth nor want has bought,
Which wooed me young, and woos me old,
And to this evening hath me brought.


My memory I'll educate
To know the one historic truth,
Remembering to the latest date
The only true and sole immortal youth.


Be but thy inspiration given,
No matter through what danger sought,
I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven,
And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.


Fame cannot tempt the bard
Who's famous with his God,
Nor laurel him reward


Who has his Maker's nod.

I was Made Erect and Lone

I was made erect and lone,
And within me is the bone;
Still my vision will be clear,
Still my life will not be drear,
To the center all is near.
Where I sit there is my throne.
If age choose to sit apart,
If age choose, give me the start,
Take the sap and leave the heart.

I am the Autumnal Sun

Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality. From time to time she claims
kindredship with us, and some globule
from her veins steals up into our own.


I am the autumnal sun,
With autumn gales my race is run;
When will the hazel put forth its flowers,
Or the grape ripen under my bowers?
When will the harvest or the hunter's moon
Turn my midnight into mid-noon?
I am all sere and yellow,
And to my core mellow.
The mast is dropping within my woods,
The winter is lurking within my moods,
And the rustling of the withered leaf
Is the constant music of my grief...

Epitaph On The World

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
'Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when 'twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.

Epitaph On The World

Here lies the body of this world,
Whose soul alas to hell is hurled.
This golden youth long since was past,
Its silver manhood went as fast,
An iron age drew on at last;
'Tis vain its character to tell,
The several fates which it befell,
What year it died, when 'twill arise,
We only know that here it lies.

Great God, I Ask for no Meaner Pelf

Great God, I ask for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself,
That in my action I may soar as high
As I can now discern with this clear eye.


And next in value, which thy kindness lends,
That I may greatly disappoint my friends,
Howe'er they think or hope that it may be,
They may not dream how thou'st distinguished me.


That my weak hand may equal my firm faith
And my life practice what my tongue saith
That my low conduct may not show
Nor my relenting lines
That I thy purpose did not know
Or overrated thy designs.

All Things Are Current Found

ALL things are current found
On earthly ground,
Spirits and elements
Have their descents.


Night and day, year on year,
High and low, far and near,
These are our own aspects,
These are our own regrets.


Ye gods of the shore,
Who abide evermore,
I see you far headland,
Stretching on either hand;


I hear the sweet evening sounds
From your undecaying grounds;
Cheat me no more with time,
Take me to your clime.

The Dying Child

Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping;
Let me repose upon thy bosom sick;
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping,
Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek.


Here it is cold: the tempest raveth madly;
But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright;
I see the angel-children smiling gladly,
When from my weary eyes I shut out light.


Mother, one stands beside me now! and, listen!
Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord?
See how his white wings beautifully glisten?
Surely those wings were given him by the Lord!


Green, gold, and red, are floating all around me;
They are the flowers the angel scattereth.
Should I have also wings while life has bound me?
Or, mother, are they given alone in death?


Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going?
Why dost thou press thy cheek so unto mine?
Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing!
I will, dear mother, will be always thine!


Do not sigh thus - it marreth my reposing;
But if thou weep, then I must weep with thee!
Ah, I am tired - my weary eyes are closing -
Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me!

June


'Glemt er nu Vaarens Kamp og Vinter-Sorgen,
Til Glæde sig forvandler hvert et Suk.
Skjøn som en Brud, den anden Bryllups-Morgen,
Ei længer Barn, og dog saa ung og smuk,
Den skjønne Junimaaned til os kommer;
Det er Skærsommer!


*
De høie Popler hæve sig saa slanke,
I Hyldetræet qviddrer Fuglen smukt.
Paa Gjærdet groer den grønne Humle-Ranke,
Og Æble-Blomstret former sig til Frugt.
Den varme Sommerluft fra Skyen strømmer,
Sødt Hjertet drømmer!


Paa Engen slaae de Græs; hør, Leen klinger.
Paa Himlen smukke Sommerskyer staae.
Og Kløvermarken Røgelse os svinger,
Mens høit i Choret alle Lærker slaae.


-Med Vandringsstav hist Ungersvenden kommer
Hjem i Skærsommer.
Ungersvenden.
Alt jeg Kirketaarnet øiner,
Spiret kneiser stolt derpaa.
Og hvor Marken hist sig høiner,
End de fire Pile staae.
Her er Skoven. Store Rødder
Før af Træerne der laae.
Her, som Dreng, jeg plukked' Nødder,
Og trak Jordbær paa et Straa!


-Barndoms Minder mig besjæle!
Jeg vil flyve, jeg vil dvæle!
Grønne Skov, min Barndoms Ven,
Kan Du kjende mig igjen?
Grønne Hæk, du brune Stamme,
Jeg, som før, er end den samme,
Har vel seet og hørt lidt meer,
Ellers Du den Samme seer! -
Her er Pladsen end med Vedet,
Godt jeg kjender Parken der!
Her er Stenten tæt ved Ledet,
Gud, hvor lille den dog er!
Alt jeg kjender her saa godt,
Men det er saa nært, saa smaat -
Det var stort, da jeg var liden,
Jeg er bleven større siden! -
Lille Fugl paa grønne Qvist,
Saae Du mig derude hist,
Naar jeg stundom sorgfuld sad?
Seer Du nu - - nu er jeg glad!

Var der ude Himlen graae
Hjemmet bar jeg i min Tanke,
Hjemmet jeg i Solskin saae,
Derfor maatte Hjertet banke.

-Moder er vist ældet lidt,
Jeg har tænkt paa Dig saa tidt.
Fader! fuld af Kraft og Mod! -
Gode Gud, Du er saa god.
Jeg kan ei min Glæde bære,
Din jeg er, Din vil jeg være! -
Jeg i Sjælen er saa glad,
Kysse maa jeg Blomst og Blad;
Glemt er Længsel, Suk og Vee,
Gamle Venner skal jeg see,
Og den smaa Marie-Moer -
Ja, nu er hun bleven stor! -
O, med hvilken Lyst og Gammen
Har vi to dog leget sammen!
Mit Theater var ei stort,
Men jeg havde selv det gjort.
O, jeg har det grant i Minde.
Jeg forglemmer ingensinde
Mine smaa Marionetter,
O, med Guld og Paillietter,
Hun besyed' een og hver.
Store Stykker gav' vi der.
Blanka, Hakon Jarl, saa net,
Selv Rolf Blaaskjæg, som Ballet.
Hvis ei andre saae derpaa,
Altid Bedstemoder saae;
Og om der var allerflest,
Hun dog klapped allermeest! -
Hende skal jeg ikke see,
O, det gjør mit Hjerte Vee!
Afskeds-Kysset hun mig gav, -
Græs nu groer paa hendes Grav.
O jeg kunde næsten græde!
-Nei! Du lever - seer min Glæde
Lever! lever! mig omsvæver!
Tanken Du til Himlen hæver.
Det er Aarets bedste Dag!
Alt jeg skuer Hjemmets Tag!
Her ved Poppelpilens Rod,
I den kolde Vinter-Scene,
Var det jo min Sneemand stod,
Pyntet ud med Kul og Stene.
Her er Bækken, reen og klar,
Den min Sommer-Snekke bar!
Her staaer Haugen, sommergrøn - -
Moder, see - her er Din Søn!
Moder! kjender Du min Stemme!
O, nu er jeg atter hjemme!

*


Sønnen hviler ved sin Moders Bryst,
Faderen ham kysser glad, men stille;
Hunden logrer ved hans Fod med Lyst,
Og de store brune Øine spille.
'See, Marie! vi ham har igjen -'
Jubler høit den lykkelige Moder;
Pigen rødmer, rækker Haanden hen
Til den kjære, kjære Legebroder.
'Han er voxet i de sidste Aar!
Kom! paa Døren end hans Mærke staaer.
Eduard! o! Gud har hørt min Bøn;
Seer Du Fader, han er bleven kjøn?
Er saa god - ja! ja! jeg veed det nøie.
Jeg maa kysse ham paa Mund og Øie!


-Kjender Dagligstuen Du igjen?
Men Du er vist træt? Sæt Dig dog hen!
Seer Du, hvad der staaer paa mit Klaveer?
(O, den søde Dreng! nei see, han leer)!
Dit Theater, dine Dukker smaae -
Ja, det har Marie fundet paa, -'
Saadan gaaer det fort, glad Hjertet banker,
Kun Marie falder hen i Tanker. -
Nu vi dem i Spisestuen see.
Dækketøiet skinner som en Snee,
Sommersolen mildt fra Ruden straaler,
Jordbær dufte fra crystalne Skaaler;
Kun de bedste har Marie bragt;
Og paa Bordet smukt en Krands er lagt,
Friske Blomster der i Vasen prange,
Medens Lærken synger Velkomst-Sange.
*


Det er ud paa Aftnen snart,
Men endnu det er saa klart.
Solen synker hist bag Byen,
Ild og Roser staae paa Skyen;
Høet dufter sødt paa Marken,
Og hist henne over Parken
Dandse Myggene i Ring,
Medens Blomster rundt omkring
See til Maanen, som nu kommer
I den deilige Skærsommer!
Hør, fra Skovens dunkle Sal
Fløiter smukt en Nattergal.
Hvem gaaer hist i Haugen ene
Under Æbletræets Grene? -
Kjolen sig ved Hækken hæfter -
Tys, der kommer Nogen efter!



Pigen rødmer der og standser,
Mens det sidste Blomsterblad,
Som endnu paa Træet sad,
Falder ned og Lokken Krandser;
Træet pynter hende ud,
Som det tænkte, hun var Brud.


Eduard.
Er det Dig, som gaaer og spøger?


Marie.
Nei, om Stikkelsbær jeg søger,
Om de største jeg kan faae.
Mange Stedmo'ers-Blomster staae
I Salaten her saa net;
Jeg har plukket en Bouqvet,
Maa jeg Blomsterne Dig byde?


Eduard.
Veed Du vel, hvad de betyde?
Blomstersproget, kan jeg troe,
Kjender Du til Punkt og Prikke.


Marie.
Nei saa lærd, det er jeg ikke.


-Er det noget godt?
Eduard.
Ih jo!
Vel for mig, men
(spøgende)
Dig? - desværre!
Giv dog aldrig nogen Herre
Slige Blomster, Gud bevar' os!
Tænk Dig, hvis det galt forklares;
Jo, der har Du handlet net!


Marie.
Nu, saa giv mig min Bouqvet!


Eduard.
Nei, see kun, hvor rød Du bliver!


-Jeg den ene Blomst dig giver,
Resten faaer Du ikke meer,
Skjøndt Du saa alvorligt seer.
Lad nu Bærrene kun være,
Vi har talt saa grumme lidt!
Marie.
Skal jeg Blomstersproget lære?
Nu er det jo saa forslidt!



Eduard.
Naa, hvor Du seer ud i Haaret!
Grenen paa Toupeen slaer.
Har Du hele Dagen baaret
Æbleblomster i dit Haar?


Marie (spøgende).
Hjertet faaer kun Spot og Trængsel;
See, det har man for sin Længsel,
Nu, han er her, gjør han Nar.


Eduard.
Efter mig Du længtes har!
O, saa tidt mit Hjertes Stemme
Kaldte mig til Dig her hjemme.
Du har ofte tænkt paa mig?
O, jeg holder ret af Dig!
Men Du skrev saa korte Breve!
Tidt kun, naar de andre skreve,
Jeg fra Dig, det var Din Skik,
Bare Efterskriften fik.
Jeg mig maatte forestille,
At Du endnu var den Lille,
Og saa er Du nu saa stor! -
O, Marie, lad os vandre
Her i Haven med hverandre.
Hvert et Træ, som her jo groer
Kjender jeg fra gamle Dage.


Marie.
Gud skee Lov, Du kom tilbage!
Du er dog min kjære Broder!


-Skal vi nu gaae op til Moder?
Eduard.
Lad mig see Dig i dit Øie!
Hvert et Træk jeg kjender nøie.
Ældre, mere smuk Du staaer,
Og dog, som for otte Aar! -


Marie.
- Skal vi nu gaae op til Moder? -


Eduard.
(kysser hende paa Panden).
Det tør jeg jo nok - som Broder.


En lille Fugl (i Træet).
Hjertet maa af Elskov slaae
Baade Nat og lyse Dage!
Kjærlighed jeg synge maa,
Har dog ingen Mage!



Glade To i Havens Gang,
Jeg til Eder kommer,
Synger Eders Bryllups-Sang
Næste Aars Skærsommer!

Ja Skærsommer skal det staae,
Den har smukke Dage!

-Kjærlighed jeg synge maa,
Har dog ingen Mage!

From The Philosopher’s Stone

Now she heard the following words sadly sung,—

“Life is a shadow that flits away
In a night of darkness and woe.”
But then would follow brighter thoughts:
“Life has the rose’s sweet perfume


With sunshine, light, and joy.”
And if one stanza sounded painfully—
“Each mortal thinks of himself alone,


Is a truth, alas, too clearly known;”
Then, on the other hand, came the answer—
“Love, like a mighty flowing stream,


Fills every heart with its radiant gleam.”
She heard, indeed, such words as these—
“In the pretty turmoil here below,


All is a vain and paltry show.”
Then came also words of comfort—
“Great and good are the actions done


By many whose worth is never known.”
And if sometimes the mocking strain reached her—
“Why not join in the jesting cry


That contemns all gifts from the throne on high?”
In the blind girl’s heart a stronger voice repeated—
“To trust in thyself and God is best,


In His holy will forever to rest.”
But the evil spirit could not see this and remain contented.

the sonnet-ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

the rites for Cousin Vit

Carried her unprotesting out the door.
Kicked back the casket-stand. But it can't hold her,
That stuff and satin aiming to enfold her,
The lid's contrition nor the bolts before.
Oh oh. Too much. Too much. Even now, surmise,
She rises in the sunshine. There she goes,
Back to the bars she knew and the repose
In love-rooms and the things in people's eyes.
Too vital and too squeaking. Must emerge.
Even now she does the snake-hips with a hiss,
Slops the bad wine across her shantung, talks
Of pregnancy, guitars and bridgework, walks
In parks or alleys, comes haply on the verge
Of happiness, haply hysterics. Is.

The Crazy Woman

I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.


I'll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.


And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
"That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May."


Anonymous submission.

The Independent Man

Now who could take you off to tiny life
In one room or in two rooms or in three
And cork you smartly, like the flask of wine
You are? Not any woman. Not a wife.
You'd let her twirl you, give her a good glee
Showing your leaping ruby to a friend.
Though twirling would be meek. Since not a cork
Could you allow, for being made so free.

A woman would be wise to think it well
If once a week you only rang the bell.

Primer For Blacks

Blackness
is a title,
is a preoccupation,
is a commitment Blacks
are to comprehend—
and in which you are
to perceive your Glory.


The conscious shout
of all that is white is
“It’s Great to be white.”
The conscious shout
of the slack in Black is
'It's Great to be white.'
Thus all that is white
has white strength and yours.


The word Black


has geographic power,


pulls everybody in:


Blacks here—


Blacks there—


Blacks wherever they may be.


And remember, you Blacks, what they told you—


remember your Education:


“one Drop—one Drop


maketh a brand new Black.”
Oh mighty Drop.

______And because they have given us kindly

so many more of our people

Blackness
stretches over the land.
Blackness—
the Black of it,
the rust-red of it,
the milk and cream of it,
the tan and yellow-tan of it,
the deep-brown middle-brown high-brown of it,
the “olive” and ochre of it—
Blackness
marches on.


The huge, the pungent object of our prime out-ride
is to Comprehend,
to salute and to Love the fact that we are Black,
which is our “ultimate Reality,”
which is the lone ground
from which our meaningful metamorphosis,
from which our prosperous staccato,
group or individual, can rise.



Self-shriveled Blacks.
Begin with gaunt and marvelous concession:
YOU are our costume and our fundamental bone.


All of you—
you COLORED ones,
you NEGRO ones,


those of you who proudly cry
“I’m half INDian”—
those of you who proudly screech
“I’VE got the blood of George WASHington in MY veins”
ALL of you—

you proper Blacks,
you half-Blacks,
you wish-I-weren’t Blacks,
Niggeroes and Niggerenes.


You.

Sadie and Maud

Maud went to college.
Sadie stayed home.
Sadie scraped life
With a fine toothed comb.


She didn't leave a tangle in
Her comb found every strand.
Sadie was one of the livingest chicks
In all the land.


Sadie bore two babies
Under her maiden name.
Maud and Ma and Papa
Nearly died of shame.


When Sadie said her last so-long
Her girls struck out from home.
(Sadie left as heritage
Her fine-toothed comb.)


Maud, who went to college,
Is a thin brown mouse.
She is living all alone
In this old house.

My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell

I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.

Of Robert Frost

There is a little lightning in his eyes.
Iron at the mouth.
His brows ride neither too far up nor down.


He is splendid. With a place to stand.


Some glowing in the common blood.
Some specialness within.