Selected Poems Read Online

That’s what I call grit, don’t you?
Sich a girl’s worth stickin’ to.

The Party

Dey had a gread big pahty down to Tom’s de othah night;

Was I dah? You bet! I nevah in my life see sich a sight;

All de folks f’om fou’ plantations was invited, an’ dey come,

Dey come troopin’ thick ez chillun when dey hyeahs a fife an’ drum.

Evahbody dressed deir fines’—Heish yo’ mouf an’ git away,

Ain’t seen no sich fancy dressin’ sence las’ quah’tly meetin’ day;

Gals all dressed in silks an’ satins, not a wrinkle ner a crease, Eyes a-battin’, teeth a-shinin’, haih breshed back ez slick ez grease;

Sku’ts all tucked an’ puffed an’ ruffled, evah blessed seam an’ stitch;

Ef you’d seen ’em wif deir mistus, couldn’t swahed to which was which.

Men all dressed up in Prince Alberts, swaller-tails ’u’d tek yo’ bref!

I cain’t tell you nothin’ ’bout it, y’ ought to seen it fu’ yo’se’f.

Who was dah? Now who you askin’? How you ’spect I gwine to know?

You mus’ think I stood an’ counted evahbody at de do’.

Ole man Babah’s house-boy Isaac, brung dat gal, Malindy Jane,

Huh a-hangin’ to his elbow, him a-struttin’ wif a cane;

My, but Hahvey Jones was jealous! seemed to stick him lak a tho’n;

But he laughed with Viney Cahteh, tryin’ ha’d to not let on,

But a pusson would’a’ noticed f’om de d’rection of his look,

Dat he was watchin’ ev’ry step dat Ike an’ Lindy took.

Ike he foun’ a cheer an’ asked huh: “Won’t you set down?” wif a smile,

An’ she answe’d up a-bowin’, “Oh, I reckon ’tain’t wuth while.”

Dat was jes’ fu’ style, I reckon, ’cause she sot down jes’ de same,

An’ she stayed dah ’twell he fetched huh fu’ to jine some so’t o’ game;

Den I hyeahd huh sayin’ propah, ez she riz to go away, “Oh, you raly mus’ excuse me, fu’ I hardly keers to play.”

But I seen huh in a minute wif de othahs on de flo’,

An’ dah wasn’t any one o’ dem a-playin’ any mo’;

Comin’ down de flo’ a-bowin’ an’ a-swayin’ an’ a-swingin’,

Puttin’ on huh high-toned mannahs all de time dat she was singin’:

“Oh, swing Johnny up an’ down, swing him all aroun’,

Swing Johnny up an’ down, swing him all aroun’,

Oh, swing Johnny up an’ down, swing him all aroun’

Fa’ you well, my dahlin’.”

Had to laff at ole man Johnson, he’s a caution now, you bet—

Hittin’ clost onto a hunderd, but he’s spry an’ nimble yet;

He ’lowed how a-so’t o’ gigglin’, “I ain’t ole, I’ll let you see,

D’ain’t no use in gittin’ feeble, now you youngstahs jes’ watch me,”

An’ he grabbed ole Aunt Marier—weighs th’ee hunderd mo’ er less,

An’ he spun huh ’roun’ de cabin swingin’ Johnny lak de res’.

Evahbody laffed an’ hollahed: “Go it! Swing huh, Uncle Jim!”

An’ he swung huh too, I reckon, lak a youngstah, who but him.

Dat was bettah’n young Scott Thomas, tryin’ to be so awful smaht.

You know when dey gits to singin’ an’ dey comes to dat ere paht:

“In some lady’s new brick house,

In some lady’s gyahden.

Ef you don’t let me out, I will jump out,

So fa’ you well, my dahlin’.”

Den dey’s got a circle ’roun’ you, an’ you’s got to break de line;

Well, dat dahky was so anxious, lak to bust hisse’f a-tryin’;

Kep’ on blund’rin’ ’roun’ an’ foolin’ ’twell he giv’ one gread big jump,

Broke de line, an lit head-fo’most in de fiah-place right plump;

Hit ’ad fiah in it, mind you; well, I thought my soul I’d bust,

Tried my best to keep f’om laffin’, but hit seemed like die I must!

Y’ ought to seen dat man a-scramblin’ f’om de ashes an’ de grime.

Did it bu’n him! Sich a question, why he didn’t give it time;

Th’ow’d dem ashes and dem cindahs evah which-a-way I guess,

An’ you nevah did, I reckon, clap yo’ eyes on sich a mess;

Fu’ he sholy made a picter an’ a funny one to boot,

Wif his clothes all full o’ ashes an’ his face all full o’ soot.

Well, hit laked to stopped de pahty, an’ I reckon lak ez not

Dat it would ef Tom’s wife, Mandy, hadn’t happened on de spot,

To invite us out to suppah—well, we scrambled to de table,

An’ I’d lak to tell you ’bout it—what we had—but I ain’t able,

Mention jes’ a few things, dough I know I hadn’t orter,

Fu’ I know ’twill staht a hank’rin’ an’ yo’ mouf’ll ’mence to worter.

We had wheat bread white ez cotton an’ a egg pone jes like gol’,

Hog jole, bilin’ hot an’ steamin’ roasted shoat an’ ham sliced cold—

Look out! What’s de mattah wif you? Don’t be fallin’ on de flo’;

Ef it’s go’n’ to ’fect you dat way, I won’t tell you nothin’ mo’.

Dah now—well, we had hot chittlin’s—now you’s tryin’ ag’in to fall,

Cain’t you stan’ to hyeah about it? S’pose you’d been an’ seed it all;

Seed dem gread big sweet pertaters, layin’ by de possum’s side,

Seed dat coon in all his gravy, reckon den you’d up and died!

Mandy ’lowed “you all mus’ ’scuse me, d’ wa’n’t much upon my she’ves,

But I’s done my bes’ to suit you, so set down an’ he’p yo’se’ves.”

Tom, he ’lowed: “I don’t b’lieve in ’pologisin’ an’ perfessin’, Let ’em tek it lak dey ketch it. Eldah Thompson, ask de blessin’.”

Wish you’d seed dat colo’ed preachah cleah his th’oat an’ bow his head;

One eye shet, an’ one eye open,—dis is evah wud he said: “Lawd, look down in tendah mussy on sich generous hea’ts ez dese;

Make us truly thankful, amen. Pass dat possum, ef you please!”

Well, we eat and drunk ouah po’tion, ’twell dah wasn’t nothin’ lef,

An’ we felt jes’ like new sausage, we was mos’ nigh stuffed to def!

Tom, he knowed how we’d be feelin’, so he had de fiddlah ’roun’,

An’ he made us cleah de cabin fu’ to dance dat suppah down.

Jim, de fiddlah, chuned his fiddle, put some rosum on his bow,

Set a pine box on de table, mounted it an’ let huh go!

He’s a fiddlah, now I tell you, an’ he made dat fiddle ring,

’Twell de ol’est an’ de lamest had to give deir feet a fling.

Jigs, cotillions, reels an’ breakdowns, cordrills an’ a waltz er two;

Bless yo’ soul, dat music winged ’em an’ dem people lak to flew.

Cripple Joe, de old rheumatic, danced dat flo’ f’om side to middle,

Th’owed away his crutch an’ hopped it; what’s rheumatics ’ginst a fiddle?

Eldah Thompson got so tickled dat he lak to los’ his grace,

Had to tek bofe feet an’ hol’ dem so’s to keep ’em in deir place.

An’ de Christuns an’ de sinnahs got so mixed up on dat flo’,

Dat I don’t see how dey’d pahted ef de trump had chanced to blow.

Well, we danced dat way an’ capahed in de mos’ redic’lous way,

’Twell de roostahs in de bahnyard cleahed deir th’oats an’ crowed fu’ day.

Y’ ought to been dah, fu’ I tell you evahthing was rich an’ prime,

An’ dey ain’t no use in talkin’, we jes had one scrumptious time!

FROM POEMS OF CABIN AND FIELD 1899

The Deserted Plantation

Oh, de grubbin’-hoe’s a-rustin’ in de co’nah,
An’ de plow’s a-tumblin’ down in de fiel’,
While de whippo’will’s a-wailin’ lak a mou’nah
When his stubbo’n hea’t is tryin’ ha’d to yiel’.

In de furrers whah de co’n was allus wavin’,
Now de weeds is growin’ green an’ rank an’ tall;
An’ de swallers roun’ de whole place is a-bravin’
Lak dey thought deir folks had allus owned it all.

An’ de big house stan’s all quiet lak an’ solemn,
Not a blessed soul in pa’lor, po’ch, er lawn;
Not a guest, ner not a ca’iage lef’ to haul ’em,
Fu’ de ones dat tu’ned de latch-string out air gone.

An’ de banjo’s voice is silent in de qua’ters,
D’ ain’t a hymn ner co’n-song ringin’ in de air;
But de murmur of a branch’s passin’ waters
Is de only soun’ dat breks de stillness dere.

Whah’s de da’kies, dem dat used to be a-dancin’
Ev’ry night befo’ de ole cabin do’?
Whah’s de chillun, dem dat used to be a-prancin’
Er a-rollin’ in de san’ er on de flo’?

Whah’s ole Uncle Mordecai an’ Uncle Aaron?
Whah’s Aunt Doshy, Sam, an’ Kit, an’ all de res’?
Whah’s ole Tom de da’ky fiddlah, how’s he farin’?
Whah’s de gals dat used to sing an’ dance de bes’?

Gone! not one o’ dem is lef’ to tell de story;
Dey have lef’ de deah ole place to fall away.
Couldn’t one o’ dem dat seed it in its glory
Stay to watch it in de hour of decay?

Dey have lef’ de ole plantation to de swallers,
But it hol’s in me a lover till de las’;
Fu’ I fin’ hyeah in de memory dat follers
All dat loved me an’ dat I loved in de pas’.

So I’ll stay an’ watch de deah ole place an’ tend it
Ez I used to in de happy days gone by.
’Twell de othah Mastah thinks it’s time to end it,
An’ calls me to my qua’ters in de sky.

Little Brown Baby

Little brown baby wif spa’klin’ eyes,
Come to yo’ pappy an’ set on his knee.
What you been doin’, suh—makin’ san’ pies?
Look at dat bib—you’s ez du’ty ez me.
Look at dat mouf—dat’s merlasses, I bet;
Come hyeah, Maria, an’ wipe off his han’s.
Bees gwine to ketch you an’ eat you up yit,
Bein’ so sticky an sweet—goodness lan’s!

Little brown baby wif spa’klin’ eyes,
Who’s pappy’s darlin’ an’ who’s pappy’s chile?
Who is it all de day nevah once tries
Fu’ to be cross, er once loses dat smile?
Whah did you git dem teef? My, you’s a scamp!
Whah did dat dimple come f’om in yo’ chin?
Pappy do’ know you—I b’lieves you’s a tramp;
Mammy, dis hyeah’s some ol’ straggler got in!

Let’s th’ow him outen de do’ in de san’,
We do’ want stragglers a-layin’ ’roun’ hyeah;
Let’s gin him ’way to de big buggah-man;
I know he’s hidin’ erroun’ hyeah right neah.
Buggah-man, buggah-man, come in de do’,
Hyeah’s a bad boy you kin have fu’ to eat.
Mammy an’ pappy do’ want him no mo’,
Swaller him down f’om his haid to his feet!

Dah, now, I t’ought dat you’d hug me up close.
Go back, ol’ buggah, you sha’n’t have dis boy.
He ain’t no tramp, ner no straggler, of co’se;
He’s pappy’s pa’dner an’ playmate an’ joy.
Come to you’ pallet now—go to yo’ res’;
Wisht you could allus know ease an’ cleah skies;
Wisht you could stay jes’ a chile on my breas’—
Little brown baby wif spa’klin’ eyes!

Chrismus Is A-Comin’

Bones a-gittin’ achy,
Back a-feelin’ col’,
Han’s a-growin’ shaky,
Jes’ lak I was ol’.
Fros’ erpon de meddah
Lookin’ mighty white;
Snowdraps lak a feddah
Slippin’ down at night.
Jes’ keep t’ings a-hummin’
Spite o’ fros’ an’ showahs,
Chrismus is a-comin’
An’ all de week is ouahs.

Little mas’ a-axin’,
“Who is Santy Claus?”
Meks it kin’ o’ taxin’
Not to brek de laws.
Chillun’s pow’ful tryin’
To a pusson’s grace
W’en dey go a pryin’
Right on th’oo you’ face
Down ermong yo’ feelin’s;
Jes’ ’pears lak dat you
Got to change you’ dealin’s
So’s to tell ’em true.

An’ my pickaninny—
Dreamin’ in his sleep!
Come hyeah, Mammy Jinny,
Come an’ tek a peep.
Ol’ Mas’ Bob an’ Missis
In dey house up daih
Got no chile lak dis is,
D’ ain’t none anywhaih.
Sleep, my little lammy,
Sleep, you little limb,
He do’ know whut mammy
Done saved up fu’ him.

Dey’ll be banjo pickin’,
Dancin’ all night thoo.
Dey’ll be lots o’ chicken,
Plenty tukky, too.
Drams to wet yo’ whistles
So’s to drive out chills.
Whut I keer fu’ drizzles
Fallin’ on de hills?
Jes’ keep t’ings a-hummin’
Spite o’ col’ an’ showahs,
Chrismus day’s a-comin’,
An’ all de week is ouahs.

FROM LYRICS OF THE HEARTHSIDE 1899

Love’s Apotheosis

Love me. I care not what the circling years
To me may do.
If, but in spite of time and tears,
You prove but true.

Love me—albeit grief shall dim mine eyes,
And tears bedew,
I shall not e’en complain, for then my skies
Shall still be blue.

Love me, and though the winter snow shall pile,
And leave me chill,
Thy passion’s warmth shall make for me, meanwhile,
A sun-kissed hill.

And when the days have lengthened into years,
And I grow old,
Oh, spite of pains and griefs and cares and fears,
Grow thou not cold.

Then hand and hand we shall pass up the hill,
I say not down;
That twain go up, of love, who’ve loved their fill,—
To gain love’s crown.

Love me, and let my life take up thine own,
As sun the dew.
Come, sit, my queen, for in my heart a throne
Awaits for you!

The Paradox

I am the mother of sorrows,
I am the ender of grief;
I am the bud and the blossom,
I am the late-falling leaf.

I am thy priest and thy poet,
I am thy serf and thy king;
I cure the tears of the heartsick,
When I come near they shall sing.

White are my hands as the snowdrop;
Swart are my fingers as clay;
Dark is my frown as the midnight,
Fair is my brow as the day.

Battle and war are my minions,
Doing my will as divine;
I am the calmer of passions,
Peace is a nursling of mine.

Speak to me gently or curse me,
Seek me or fly from my sight;
I am thy fool in the morning,
Thou art my slave in the night.

Down to the grave will I take thee,
Out from the noise of the strife;
Then shalt thou see me and know me—
Death, then, no longer, but life.
Then shalt thou sing at my coming,
Kiss me with passionate breath,
Clasp me and smile to have thought me
Aught save the foeman of Death.

Come to me, brother, when weary,
Come when thy lonely heart swells;
I’ll guide thy footsteps and lead thee
Down where the Dream Woman dwells.

The Right to Die

I have no fancy for that ancient cant
That makes us masters of our destinies,
And not our lives, to hold or give them up
As will directs; I cannot, will not think
That men, the subtle worms, who plot and plan
And scheme and calculate with such shrewd wit,
Are such great blund’ring fools as not to know
When they have lived enough.
Men court not death
When there are sweets still left in life to taste.
Nor will a brave man choose to live when he,
Full deeply drunk of life, has reached the dregs,
And knows that now but bitterness remains.
He is the coward who, outfaced in this,
Fears the false goblins of another life.
I honor him who being much harassed
Drinks of sweet courage until drunk of it,—
Then seizing Death, reluctant, by the hand,
Leaps with him, fearless, to eternal peace!

Behind the Arras

As in some dim baronial hall restrained,
A prisoner sits, engirt by secret doors
And waving tapestries that argue forth
Strange passages into the outer air;
So in this dimmer room which we call life,
Thus sits the soul and marks with eye intent
That mystic curtain o’er the portal death;
Still deeming that behind the arras lies
The lambent way that leads to lasting light.
Poor fooled and foolish soul! Know now that death
Is but a blind, false door that nowhere leads,
And gives no hope of exit final, free.

A Hymn

After Reading Lead, Kindly Light.

Lead gently, Lord, and slow,
For oh, my steps are weak,
And ever as I go,
Some soothing sentence speak;

That I may turn my face
Through doubt’s obscurity
Toward thine abiding-place,
E’en tho’ I cannot see.

For lo, the way is dark;
Through mist and cloud I grope,
Save for that fitful spark,
The little flame of hope.