Selected Poems Read Online

Ef de sweet pertater fails us an’ de go’geous yallah yam,
We kin tek a bit o’ comfo’t f’om ouah sto’ o’ summah jam.
W’en de snow hit git to flyin’, dat’s de Mastah’s own desiah,
De Lawd’ll run de wintah an’ yo’ mammy’ll run de fiah.
I ain’ skeered because de win’ hit staht to raih and blow,
I ain’t bothahed w’en he come er rattlin’ at de do’,
Let him taih hisse’f an’ shout, let him blow an’ bawl,
Dat’s de time de branches shek an’ bresh-wood ’mence to fall.
W’en de sto’m er railin’ an’ de shettahs blowin’ ’bout,
Dat de time de fiah-place crack hits welcome out.
Tain’ my livin’ business fu’ to trouble ner enquiah,
De Lawd’ll min’ de wintah an’ my mammy’ll min’ de fiah.

Ash-cake allus gits ez brown w’en February’s hyeah
Ez it does in bakin’ any othah time o’ yeah.
De bacon smell ez callin’-like, de kittle rock an’ sing,
De same way in de wintah dat dey do it in de spring;
Dey ain’t no use in mopin’ ’round an’ lookin’ mad an’ glum
Erbout de wintah season, fu’ hit’s des plumb boun’ to come;
An’ ef it comes to runnin’ t’ings I’s willin’ to retiah,
De Lawd’ll min’ de wintah an’ my mammy’ll min’ de fiah.

The Fisher Child’s Lullaby

The wind is out in its rage to-night,
And your father is far at sea.
The rime on the window is hard and white
But dear, you are near to me.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

The little boat rocks in the cove no more,
But the flying sea-gulls wail;
I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore,
For sight of a home set sail.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die
In the gale that rides the sea,
But we’ll not believe it, not you and I,
Who mind us of Galilee.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.

FROM LYRICS OF LOVE AND LAUGHTER 1903

Joggin’ Erlong

De da’kest hour, dey allus say,
Is des’ befo’ de dawn,
But it’s moughty ha’d a-waitin’
W’ere de night goes frownin’ on;
An’ it’s moughty ha’d a-hopin’
W’en de clouds is big an’ black,
An’ all de t’ings you’s waited fu’
Has failed, er gone to wrack—
But des’ keep on a-joggin’ wid a little bit o’ song,
De mo’n is allus brightah w’en de night’s been long.

Dey’s lots o’ knocks you’s got to tek
Befo’ yo’ journey’s done,
An’ dey’s times w’en you’ll be wishin’
Dat de weary race was run;
W’en you want to give up tryin’
An’ des’ float erpon de wave,
W’en you don’t feel no mo’ sorrer
Ez you t’ink erbout de grave—
Den, des’ keep on a-joggin’ wid a little bit o’ song,
De mo’n is allus brightah w’en de night’s been long.

De whup-lash sting a good deal mo’
De back hit ’s knowed befo’,
An’ de burden’s allus heavies’
Whaih hits weight has made a so’;
Dey is times w’en tribulation
Seems to git de uppah han’
An’ to whip de weary trav’lah
’Twell he ain’t got stren’th to stan’—
But des’ keep on a-joggin’ wid a little bit o’ song,
De mo’n is allus brightah w’en de night’s been long.

In May

Oh to have you in May,
To talk with you under the trees,
Dreaming throughout the day,
Drinking the wine-like breeze,

Oh it were sweet to think
That May should be ours again,
Hoping it not, I shrink,
Out of the sight of men.

May brings the flowers to bloom,
It brings the green leaves to the tree,
And the fatally sweet perfume,
Of what you once were to me.

Dreams

What dreams we have and how they fly
Like rosy clouds across the sky;
Of wealth, of fame, of sure success,
Of love that comes to cheer and bless;
And how they wither, how they fade,
The waning wealth, the jilting jade—
The fame that for a moment gleams,
Then flies forever,—dreams, ah—dreams!

O burning doubt and long regret,
O tears with which our eyes are wet,
Heart-throbs, heart-aches, the glut of pain,
The somber cloud, the bitter rain,
You were not of those dreams—ah! well,
Your full fruition who can tell?
Wealth, fame, and love, ah! love that beams
Upon our souls, all dreams—ah! dreams.

The Dove

Out of the sunshine and out of the heat,
Out of the dust of the grimy street,
A song fluttered down in the form of a dove,
And it bore me a message, the one word—Love!

Ah, I was toiling, and oh, I was sad:
I had forgotten the way to be glad.
Now, smiles for my sadness and for my toil, rest
Since the dove fluttered down to its home in my breast!

The Valse

When to sweet music my lady is dancing
My heart to mild frenzy her beauty inspires.
Into my face are her brown eyes a-glancing,
And swift my whole frame thrills with tremulous fires.
Dance, lady, dance, for the moments are fleeting,
Pause not to place yon refractory curl;
Life is for love and the night is for sweeting;
Dreamily, joyously, circle and whirl.

Oh, how those viols are throbbing and pleading;
A prayer is scarce needed in sound of their strain.
Surely and lightly as round you are speeding,
You turn to confusion my heart and my brain.
Dance, lady, dance to the viol’s soft calling,
Skip it and trip it as light as the air;
Dance, for the moments like rose leaves are falling,
Strikes, now, the clock from its place on the stair.
Now sinks the melody lower and lower,
The weary musicians scarce seeming to play.
Ah, love, your steps now are slower and slower,
The smile on your face is more sad and less gay.
Dance, lady, dance to the brink of our parting,
My heart and your step must not fail to be light.
Dance! Just a turn—tho’ the tear-drop be starting.
Ah—now it is done—so—my lady, good-night!

Song

Wintah, summah, snow er shine,
Hit’s all de same to me,
Ef only I kin call you mine,
An’ keep you by my knee.

Ha’dship, frolic, grief er caih,
Content by night an’ day,
Ef only I kin see you whaih
You wait beside de way.

Livin’, dyin’, smiles er teahs,
My soul will still be free,
Ef only thoo de comin’ yeahs
You walk de worl’ wid me.

Bird-song, breeze-wail, chune er moan,
What puny t’ings dey’ll be,
Ef w’en I’s seemin’ all erlone,
I knows yo’ hea’t’s wid me.

Inspiration

At the golden gate of song
Stood I, knocking all day long,
But the Angel, calm and cold,
Still refused and bade me, “Hold.”

Then a breath of soft perfume,
Then a light within the gloom;
Thou, Love, camest to my side,
And the gates flew open wide.

Long I dwelt in this domain,
Knew no sorrow, grief, or pain;
Now you bid me forth and free,
Will you shut these gates on me?

When Dey ‘Listed Colored Soldiers

Dey was talkin’ in de cabin, dey was talkin’ in de hall;

But I listened kin’ o’ keerless, not a-t’inkin’ ’bout it all;

An’ on Sunday, too, I noticed, dey was whisp’rin’ mighty much,

Stan’in’ all erroun’ de roadside w’en dey let us out o’ chu’ch.

But I didn’t t’ink erbout it ’twell de middle of de week,

An’ my ’Lias come to see me, an’ somehow he couldn’t speak.

Den I seed all in a minute whut he’d come to see me for;—

Dey had ’listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias gwine to wah.

Oh, I hugged him, an’ I kissed him, an’ I baiged him not to go;

But he tol’ me dat his conscience, hit was callin’ to him so,

An’ he couldn’t baih to lingah w’en he had a chanst to fight

For de freedom dey had gin him an’ de glory of de right.

So he kissed me, an’ he lef’ me, w’en I’d p’omised to be true;

An’ dey put a knapsack on him, an’ a coat all colo’ed blue.

So I gin him pap’s ol’ Bible f’om de bottom of de draw’,—

W’en dey ’listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

But I t’ought of all de weary miles dat he would have to tramp,

An’ I couldn’t be contented w’en dey tuk him to de camp.

W’y my hea’t nigh broke wid grievin’ ’twell I seed him on de street;

Den I felt lak I could go an’ th’ow my body at his feet.

For his buttons was a-shinin’, an’ his face was shinin’, too,

An’ he looked so strong an’ mighty in his coat o’ sojer blue,

Dat I hollahed, “Step up, manny,” dough my th’oat was so’ an’ raw,—

W’en dey ’listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

Ol’ Mis’ cried w’en mastah lef’ huh, young Miss mou’ned huh brothah Ned,

An’ I didn’t know dey feelin’s is de ve’y wo’ds dey said

W’en I tol’ ’em I was so’y. Dey had done gin up dey all;

But dey only seemed mo’ proudah dat dey men had hyeahed de call.

Bofe my mastahs went in gray suits, an’ I loved de Yankee blue,

But I t’ought dat I could sorrer for de losin’ of ’em too;

But I couldn’t, for I didn’t know de ha’f o’ whut I saw, ’Twell dey ’listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

Mastah Jack come home all sickly; he was broke for life, dey said;

An’ dey lef’ my po’ young mastah some’r’s on de roadside,—dead.

W’en de women cried an’ mou’ned ’em, I could feel it thoo an’ thoo,

For I had a loved un fightin’ in de way o’ dangah, too.

Den dey tol’ me dey had laid him some’r’s way down souf to res’,

Wid de flag dat he had fit for shinin’ daih acrost his breas’.

Well, I cried, but den I reckon dat’s whut Gawd had called him for,

W’en dey ’listed colo’ed sojers an’ my ’Lias went to wah.

Lincoln

Hurt was the nation with a mighty wound,
And all her ways were filled with clam’rous sound.
Wailed loud the South with unremitting grief,
And wept the North that could not find relief.
Then madness joined its harshest tone to strife:
A minor note swelled in the song of life.
’Till, stirring with the love that filled his breast,
But still, unflinching at the right’s behest,
Grave Lincoln came, strong handed, from afar,
The mighty Homer of the lyre of war.
’Twas he who bade the raging tempest cease,
Wrenched from his harp the harmony of peace,
Muted the strings, that made the discord,—Wrong,
And gave his spirit up in thund’rous song.
Oh mighty Master of the mighty lyre,
Earth heard and trembled at thy strains of fire:
Earth learned of thee what Heav’n already knew,
And wrote thee down among her treasured few.

To a Captious Critic

Dear critic, who my lightness so deplores,
Would I might study to be prince of bores,
Right wisely would I rule that dull estate—
But, sir, I may not, till you abdicate.

The Poet

He sang of life, serenely sweet,
With, now and then, a deeper note.