JAMES WELDON JOHNSON
"THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EX-COLORED MAN," ETC.
With an Introduction by BRANDER MATTHEWS
THE CORNHILL COMPANY
G. N. F.
For permission to reprint certain poems in this book thanks are due to
the editors and proprietors of the _Century Magazine_, the
_Independent_, _The Crisis_, _The New York Times_, and the following
copyright holders, G. Ricordi and Company, G. Schirmer and Company,
and Joseph W. Stern and Company.
O Black and Unknown Bards
To Horace Bumstead
The Color Sergeant
The Black Mammy
Father, Father Abraham
The White Witch
The Young Warrior
The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face
From the Spanish of Plácido
From the Spanish
From the German of Uhland
Before a Painting
I Hear the Stars Still Singing
Girl of Fifteen
Down by the Carib Sea
I. Sunrise in the Tropics
II. Los Cigarillos
IV. The Lottery Girl
V. The Dancing Girl
VI. Sunset in the Tropics
The Greatest of These Is War
A Mid-Day Dreamer
Ghosts of the Old Year
The Ghost of Deacon Brown
Deep in the Quiet Wood
The Word of an Engineer
Prayer at Sunrise
The Gift to Sing
Morning, Noon and Night
Her Eyes Twin Pools
Beauty That Is Never Old
Venus in a Garden
JINGLES & CROONS
Sence You Went Away
Ma Lady's Lips Am Like de Honey
Nobody's Lookin' but de Owl an' de Moon
You's Sweet to Yo' Mammy Jes de Same
A Plantation Bacchanal
July in Georgy
A Banjo Song
Answer to Prayer
Dat Gal o' Mine
Brer Rabbit, You'se de Cutes' of 'Em All
De Little Pickaninny's Gone to Sleep
Of the hundred millions who make up the population of the United States ten millions come from a stock ethnically alien to the other
ninety millions. They are not descended from ancestors who came here voluntarily, in the spirit of adventure to better themselves or in the
spirit of devotion to make sure of freedom to worship God in their own way. They are the grandchildren of men and women brought here against
their wills to serve as slaves. It is only half-a-century since they received their freedom and since they were at last permitted to own themselves. They are now American citizens, with the rights and the duties of other American citizens; and they know no language, no literature and no law other than those of their fellow citizens of Anglo-Saxon ancestry.
When we take stock of ourselves these ten millions cannot be left out of account. Yet they are not as we are; they stand apart, more or
less; they have their own distinct characteristics. It behooves us to understand them as best we can and to discover what manner of people they are. And we are justified in inquiring how far they have revealed themselves, their racial characteristics, their abiding traits, their longing aspirations,--how far have they disclosed these in one or another of the several arts. They have had their poets, their painters, their composers, and yet most of these have ignored their racial opportunity and have worked in imitation and in emulation of their white predecessors and contemporaries, content to handle again the traditional themes. The most important and the most significant contributions they have made to art are in music,--first in the plaintive beauty of the so-called "Negro spirituals"--and, secondly, in the syncopated melody of so-called "ragtime" which has now taken the whole world captive.
In poetry, especially in the lyric, wherein the soul is free to find full expression for its innermost emotions, their attempts have been, for the most part, divisible into two classes. In the first of these may be grouped the verses in which the lyrist put forth sentiments common to all mankind and in no wise specifically those of his own race; and from the days of Phyllis Wheatley to the present the most of the poems written by men who were not wholly white are indistinguishable from the poems written by men who were wholly white. Whatever their merits might be, these verses cast little or no light upon the deeper racial sentiments of the people to whom the poets themselves belonged. But in the lyrics to be grouped in the second of these classes there was a racial quality. This contained the dialect verses in which there was an avowed purpose of recapturing the color, the flavor, the movement of life in "the quarters," in the cotton field and in the canebrake. Even in this effort, white authors had led the way; Irvin Russell and Joel Chandler Harris had made the path straight for Paul Laurence Dunbar, with his lilting lyrics, often infused with the pathos of a down-trodden folk.
In the following pages Mr. James Weldon Johnson conforms to both of these traditions. He gathers together a group of lyrics, delicate in workmanship, fragrant with sentiment, and phrased in pure and unexceptionable English. Then he has another group of dialect verses,
racy of the soil, pungent in flavor, swinging in rhythm and adroit in rhyme. But where he shows himself a pioneer is the half-dozen larger and bolder poems, of a loftier strain, in which he has been nobly successful in expressing the higher aspirations of his own people. It is in uttering this cry for recognition, for sympathy, for understanding, and above all, for justice, that Mr. Johnson is most original and most powerful. In the superb and soaring stanzas of "Fifty Years" (published exactly half-a-century after the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation) he has given us one of the noblest commemorative poems yet written by any American,--a poem sonorous in its diction, vigorous in its workmanship, elevated in its imagination and sincere in its emotion. In it speaks the voice of his race; and the race is fortunate in its spokesman. In it a fine theme has been finely treated. In it we are made to see something of the soul of the people who are our fellow citizens now and forever,--even if we do not
always so regard them. In it we are glad to acclaim a poem which any living poet might be proud to call his own.
in the City of New York._
Eternities before the first-born day,
Or ere the first sun fledged his wings of flame,
Calm Night, the everlasting and the same,
A brooding mother over chaos lay.
And whirling suns shall blaze and then decay,
Shall run their fiery courses and then claim
The haven of the darkness whence they came;
Back to Nirvanic peace shall grope their way.
So when my feeble sun of life burns out,
And sounded is the hour for my long sleep,
I shall, full weary of the feverish light,
Welcome the darkness without fear or doubt,
And heavy-lidded, I shall softly creep
Into the quiet bosom of the Night.
THE YOUNG WARRIOR
Mother, shed no mournful tears,
But gird me on my sword;
And give no utterance to thy fears,
But bless me with thy word.
The lines are drawn! The fight is on!
A cause is to be won!
Mother, look not so white and wan;
Give Godspeed to thy son.
Now let thine eyes my way pursue
Where'er my footsteps fare;
And when they lead beyond thy view,
Send after me a prayer.
But pray not to defend from harm,
Nor danger to dispel;
Pray, rather, that with steadfast arm
I fight the battle well.
Pray, mother of mine, that I always keep
My heart and purpose strong,
My sword unsullied and ready to leap
Unsheathed against the wrong.
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.
(_From the Spanish of Plácido_)
Enough of love! Let break its every hold!
Ended my youthful folly! for I know
That, like the dazzling, glister-shedding snow,
Celia, thou art beautiful, but cold.
I do not find in thee that warmth which glows,
Which, all these dreary days, my heart has sought,
That warmth without which love is lifeless, naught
More than a painted fruit, a waxen rose.
Such love as thine, scarce can it bear love's name,
Deaf to the pleading notes of his sweet lyre,
A frank, impulsive heart I wish to claim,
A heart that blindly follows its desire.
I wish to embrace a woman full of flame,
I want to kiss a woman made of fire.
FROM THE SPANISH
Twenty years go by on noiseless feet,
He returns, and once again they meet,
She exclaims, "Good heavens! and is that he?"
He mutters, "My God! and that is she!"
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!"
BEFORE A PAINTING
I knew not who had wrought with skill so fine
What I beheld; nor by what laws of art
He had created life and love and heart
On canvas, from mere color, curve and line.
Silent I stood and made no move or sign;
Not with the crowd, but reverently apart;
Nor felt the power my rooted limbs to start,
But mutely gazed upon that face divine.
And over me the sense of beauty fell,
As music over a raptured listener to
The deep-voiced organ breathing out a hymn;
Or as on one who kneels, his beads to tell,
There falls the aureate glory filtered through
The windows in some old cathedral dim.
I HEAR THE STARS STILL SINGING
I hear the stars still singing
To the beautiful, silent night,
As they speed with noiseless winging
Their ever westward flight.
I hear the waves still falling
On the stretch of lonely shore,
But the sound of a sweet voice calling
I shall hear, alas! no more.
GIRL OF FIFTEEN
Girl of fifteen,
I see you each morning from my window
As you pass on your way to school.
I do more than see, I watch you.
I furtively draw the curtain aside.
And my heart leaps through my eyes
And follows you down the street;
Leaving me behind, half-hid
And wholly ashamed.
What holds me back,
Half-hid behind the curtains and wholly ashamed,
But my forty years beyond your fifteen?
Girl of fifteen, as you pass
There passes, too, a lightning flash of time
In which you lift those forty summers off my head,
And take those forty winters out of my heart.
For fifty years,
Cruel, insatiable Old World,
You have punched me over the heart
Till you made me cough blood.
The few paltry things I gathered
You snatched out of my hands.
You have knocked the cup from my thirsty lips.
You have laughed at my hunger of body and soul.
You look at me now and think,
"He is still strong,
There ought to be twenty more years of good punching there.
At the end of that time he will be old and broken,
Not able to strike back,
But cringing and crying for leave
To live a little longer."
Those twenty, pitiful, extra years
Would please you more than the fifty past,
Would they not, Old World?
Well, I hold them up before your greedy eyes,
And snatch them away as I laugh in your face,
DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA
_Sunrise in the Tropics_
Sol, Sol, mighty lord of the tropic zone,
Here I wait with the trembling stars
To see thee once more take thy throne.
There the patient palm tree watching
Waits to say, "Good morn" to thee,
And a throb of expectation
Pulses through the earth and me.
Now, o'er nature falls a hush,
Look! the East is all a-blush;
And a growing crimson crest
Dims the late stars in the west;
Now, a flood of golden light
Sweeps across the silver night,
Swift the pale moon fades away
Before the light-girt King of Day,
See! the miracle is done!
Once more behold! The Sun!
This is the land of the dark-eyed _gente_,
Of the _dolce far niente_,
Where we dream away
Both the night and day,
At night-time in sleep our dreams we invoke,
Our dreams come by day through the redolent smoke,
As it lazily curls,
And slowly unfurls
From our lips,
And the tips
Of our fragrant _cigarillos_.
For life in the tropics is only a joke,
So we pass it in dreams, and we pass it in smoke,
Call for occasional revolutions;
But after that's through,
Why there's nothing to do
For life in the tropics is only a joke,
So we pass it in dreams, and we pass it in smoke,
Of tropic sensations, the worst
Is, _sin duda_, the tropical thirst.
When it starts in your throat and constantly grows,
Till you feel that it reaches down to your toes,
When your mouth tastes like fur
And your tongue turns to dust,
There's but one thing to do,
And do it you must,
_Teestay_, a drink with a history,
A delicious, delectable mystery,
"_Cinco centavos el vaso, señor_,"
If you take one, you will surely want more.
The national drink on a feast day;
How it coolingly tickles,
As downward it trickles,
And you wish, as you take it down at a quaff,
That your neck was constructed à la giraffe.
_The Lottery Girl_
Take a chance at the lottery?
Take a ticket,
Or, better, take two;
Who knows what the future
May hold for you?
Take a chance at the lottery?"
Oh, limpid-eyed girl,
I would take every chance,
If only the prize
Were a love-flashing glance
From your fathomless eyes.
Try your luck at the lottery?
Consider the size
Of the capital prize,
And take tickets
For the lottery.
Tickets, _señor_? Tickets, _señor_?
Take a chance at the lottery?"
Oh, crimson-lipped girl,
With the magical smile,
I would count that the gamble
Were well worth the while,
Not a chance would I miss,
If only the prize
Were a honey-bee kiss
Gathered in sips
From those full-ripened lips,
And a love-flashing glance
From your eyes.
_The Dancing Girl_
Do you know what it is to dance?
Perhaps, you do know, in a fashion;
But by dancing I mean,
Not what's generally seen,
But dancing of fire and passion,
Of fire and delirious passion.
With a dusky-haired _señorita_,
Her dark, misty eyes near your own,
And her scarlet-red mouth,
Like a rose of the south,
The reddest that ever was grown,
So close that you catch
Her quick-panting breath
As across your own face it is blown,
With a sigh, and a moan.
Ah! that is dancing,
As here by the Carib it's known.
Now, whirling and twirling
Like furies we go;
Now, soft and caressing
And sinuously slow;
With an undulating motion,
Like waves on a breeze-kissed ocean:--
And the scarlet-red mouth
Is nearer your own,
And the dark, misty eyes
Still softer have grown.
Ah! that is dancing, that is loving,
As here by the Carib they're known.
_Sunset in the Tropics_
A silver flash from the sinking sun,
Then a shot of crimson across the sky
That, bursting, lets a thousand colors fly
And riot among the clouds; they run,
Deepening in purple, flaming in gold,
Changing, and opening fold after fold,
Then fading through all of the tints of the rose into gray,
Till, taking quick fright at the coming night,
They rush out down the west,
In hurried quest
Of the fleeing day.
Now above where the tardiest color flares a moment yet,
One point of light, now two, now three are set
To form the starry stairs,--
And, in her fire-fly crown,
Queen Night, on velvet slippered feet, comes softly down.
AND THE GREATEST OF THESE IS WAR
Around the council-board of Hell, with Satan at their head,
The Three Great Scourges of humanity sat.
Gaunt Famine, with hollow cheek and voice, arose and spoke,--
"O, Prince, I have stalked the earth,
And my victims by ten thousands I have slain,
I have smitten old and young.
Mouths of the helpless old moaning for bread, I have filled with dust;
And I have laughed to see a crying babe tug at the shriveling breast
Of its mother, dead and cold.
I have heard the cries and prayers of men go up to a tearless sky,
And fall back upon an earth of ashes;
But, heedless, I have gone on with my work.
'Tis thus, O, Prince, that I have scourged mankind."
And Satan nodded his head.
Pale Pestilence, with stenchful breath, then spoke and said,--
"Great Prince, my brother, Famine, attacks the poor.
He is most terrible against the helpless and the old.
But I have made a charnel-house of the mightiest cities of men.
When I strike, neither their stores of gold or of grain avail.
With a breath I lay low their strongest, and wither up their fairest.
I come upon them without warning, lancing invisible death.
From me they flee with eyes and mouths distended;
I poison the air for which they gasp, and I strike them down fleeing.
'Tis thus, great Prince, that I have scourged mankind."
And Satan nodded his head.
Then the red monster, War, rose up and spoke,--
His blood-shot eyes glared 'round him, and his thundering voice
Echoed through the murky vaults of Hell.--
"O, mighty Prince, my brothers, Famine and Pestilence,
Have slain their thousands and ten thousands,--true;
But the greater their victories have been,
The more have they wakened in Man's breast
The God-like attributes of sympathy, of brotherhood and love
And made of him a searcher after wisdom.
But I arouse in Man the demon and the brute,
I plant black hatred in his heart and red revenge.
From the summit of fifty thousand years of upward climb
I haul him down to the level of the start, back to the wolf.
I give him claws.
I set his teeth into his brother's throat.
I make him drunk with his brother's blood.
And I laugh ho! ho! while he destroys himself.
O, mighty Prince, not only do I slay,
But I draw Man hellward."
And Satan smiled, stretched out his hand, and said,--
"O War, of all the scourges of humanity, I crown you chief."
And Hell rang with the acclamation of the Fiends.
A MID-DAY DREAMER
I love to sit alone, and dream,
And dream, and dream;
In fancy's boat to softly glide
Along some stream
Where fairy palaces of gold
And crystal bright
Stand all along the glistening shore:
A wondrous sight.
My craft is built of ivory,
With silver oars,
The sails are spun of golden threads,
And priceless stores
Of precious gems adorn its prow,
And 'round its mast
An hundred silken cords are set
To hold it fast.
My galley-slaves are sprightly elves
Who, as they row,
And as their shining oars they swing
Them to and fro,
Keep time to music wafted on
The scented air,
Made by the mermaids as they comb
Their golden hair.
And I the while lie idly back,
And dream, and dream,
And let them row me where they will
Adown the stream.
Old Devil, when you come with horns and tail,
With diabolic grin and crafty leer;
I say, such bogey-man devices wholly fail
To waken in my heart a single fear.
But when you wear a form I know so well,
A form so human, yet so near divine;
'Tis then I fall beneath the magic of your spell,
'Tis then I know the vantage is not mine.
Ah! when you take your horns from off your head,
And soft and fragrant hair is in their place;
I must admit I fear the tangled path I tread
When that dear head is laid against my face.
And at what time you change your baleful eyes
For stars that melt into the gloom of night,
All of my courage, my dear fellow, quickly flies;
I know my chance is slim to win the fight.
And when, instead of charging down to wreck
Me on a red-hot pitchfork in your hand,
You throw a pair of slender arms about my neck,
I dare not trust the ground on which I stand.
Whene'er in place of using patent wile,
Or trying to frighten me with horrid grin,
You tempt me with two crimson lips curved in a smile;
Old Devil, I must really own, you win.
GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR
The snow has ceased its fluttering flight,
The wind sunk to a whisper light,
An ominous stillness fills the night,
A pause--a hush.
At last, a sound that breaks the spell,
Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell,
That through the silence peal and swell,
And roll, and rush.
What does this brazen tongue declare,
That falling on the midnight air
Brings to my heart a sense of care
Akin to fright?
'Tis telling that the year is dead,
The New Year come, the Old Year fled,
Another leaf before me spread
On which to write.
It tells the deeds that were not done,
It tells of races never run,
Of victories that were not won,
It tells of many a squandered day,
Of slighted gems and treasured clay,
Of precious stores not laid away,
Of fields unreaped.
And so the years go swiftly by,
Each, coming, brings ambitions high,
And each, departing, leaves a sigh
Linked to the past.
Large resolutions, little deeds;
Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds
Until the blotted record reads,
"Failure!" at last.
THE GHOST OF DEACON BROWN
In a backwoods town
Lived Deacon Brown,
And he was a miser old;
He would trust no bank,
So he dug, and sank
In the ground a box of gold,
Down deep in the ground a box of gold.
He hid his gold,
As has been told,
He remembered that he did it;
But sad to say,
On the very next day,
He forgot just where he hid it:
To find his gold he tried and tried
Till he grew faint and sick, and died.
Then on each dark and gloomy night
A form in phosphorescent white,
A genuine hair-raising sight,
Would wander through the town.
And as it slowly roamed around,
With a spade it dug each foot of ground;
So the folks about
Said there was no doubt
'Twas the ghost of Deacon Brown.
Around the church
This Ghost would search,
And whenever it would see
Take wings and fly
It would laugh in ghostly glee,
Hee, hee!--it would laugh in ghostly glee.
And so the town
Went quickly down,
For they said that it was haunted;
And doors and gates,
So the story states,
Bore a notice, "Tenants wanted."
And the town is now for let,
But the ghost is digging yet.
Some men enjoy the constant strife
Of days with work and worry rife,
But that is not my dream of life:
I think such men are crazy.
For me, a life with worries few,
A job of nothing much to do,
Just pelf enough to see me through:
I fear that I am lazy.
On winter mornings cold and drear,
When six o'clock alarms I hear,
'Tis then I love to shift my ear,
And hug my downy pillows.
When in the shade it's ninety-three,
No job in town looks good to me,
I'd rather loaf down by the sea,
And watch the foaming billows.
Some people think the world's a school,
Where labor is the only rule;
But I'll not make myself a mule,
And don't you ever doubt it.
I know that work may have its use,
But still I feel that's no excuse
For turning it into abuse;
What do _you_ think about it?
Let others fume and sweat and boil,
And scratch and dig for golden spoil,
And live the life of work and toil,
Their lives to labor giving.
But what is gold when life is sped,
And life is short, as has been said,
And we are such a long time dead,
I'll spend my life in living.
Old Omar, jolly sceptic, it may be
That, after all, you found the magic key
To life and all its mystery, and I
Must own you have almost persuaded me.
DEEP IN THE QUIET WOOD
Are you bowed down in heart?
Do you but hear the clashing discords and the din of life?
Then come away, come to the peaceful wood,
Here bathe your soul in silence. Listen! Now,
From out the palpitating solitude
Do you not catch, yet faint, elusive strains?
They are above, around, within you, everywhere.
Silently listen! Clear, and still more clear, they come.
They bubble up in rippling notes, and swell in singing tones.
Now let your soul run the whole gamut of the wondrous scale
Until, responsive to the tonic chord,
It touches the diapason of God's grand cathedral organ,
Filling earth for you with heavenly peace
And holy harmonies.
To chase a never-reached mirage
Across the hot, white sand,
And choke and die, while gazing on
Its green and watered strand.
THE WORD OF AN ENGINEER
"She's built of steel
From deck to keel,
And bolted strong and tight;
In scorn she'll sail
The fiercest gale,
And pierce the darkest night.
"The builder's art
Has proved each part
Throughout her breadth and length;
Deep in the hulk,
Of her mighty bulk,
Ten thousand Titans' strength."
The tempest howls,
The Ice Wolf prowls,
The winds they shift and veer,
But calm I sleep,
And faith I keep
In the word of an engineer.
Along the trail
Of the slender rail
The train, like a nightmare, flies
And dashes on
Through the black-mouthed yawn
Where the cavernous tunnel lies.
Over the ridge,
Across the bridge,
Swung twixt the sky and hell,
On an iron thread
Spun from the head
Of the man in a draughtsman's cell.
And so we ride
Over land and tide,
Without a thought of fear--
_Man never had
The faith in God
That he has in an engineer!_
Out of the infinite sea of eternity
To climb, and for an instant stand
Upon an island speck of time.
From the impassible peace of the darkness
To wake, and blink at the garish light
Through one short hour of fretfulness.
O Sleep, thou kindest minister to man,
Silent distiller of the balm of rest,
How wonderful thy power, when naught else can,
To soothe the torn and sorrow-laden breast!
When bleeding hearts no comforter can find,
When burdened souls droop under weight of woe,
When thought is torture to the troubled mind,
When grief-relieving tears refuse to flow;
'Tis then thou comest on soft-beating wings,
And sweet oblivion's peace from them is shed;
But ah, the old pain that the waking brings!
That lives again so soon as thou art fled!
Man, why should thought of death cause thee to weep;
Since death be but an endless, dreamless sleep?
PRAYER AT SUNRISE
O mighty, powerful, dark-dispelling sun,
Now thou art risen, and thy day begun.
How shrink the shrouding mists before thy face,
As up thou spring'st to thy diurnal race!
How darkness chases darkness to the west,
As shades of light on light rise radiant from thy crest!
For thee, great source of strength, emblem of might,
In hours of darkest gloom there is no night.
Thou shinest on though clouds hide thee from sight,
And through each break thou sendest down thy light.
O greater Maker of this Thy great sun,
Give me the strength this one day's race to run,
Fill me with light, fill me with sun-like strength,
Fill me with joy to rob the day its length.
Light from within, light that will outward shine,
Strength to make strong some weaker heart than mine,
Joy to make glad each soul that feels its touch;
Great Father of the sun, I ask this much.
THE GIFT TO SING
Sometimes the mist overhangs my path,
And blackening clouds about me cling;
But, oh, I have a magic way
To turn the gloom to cheerful day--
I softly sing.
And if the way grows darker still,
Shadowed by Sorrow's somber wing,
With glad defiance in my throat,
I pierce the darkness with a note,
And sing, and sing.
I brood not over the broken past,
Nor dread whatever time may bring;
No nights are dark, no days are long,
While in my heart there swells a song,
And I can sing.
MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT
When morning shows her first faint flush,
I think of the tender blush
That crept so gently to your cheek
When first my love I dared to speak;
How, in your glance, a dawning ray
Gave promise of love's perfect day.
When, in the ardent breath of noon,
The roses with passion swoon;
There steals upon me from the air
The scent that lurked within your hair;
I touch your hand, I clasp your form--
Again your lips are close and warm.
When comes the night with beauteous skies,
I think of your tear-dimmed eyes,
Their mute entreaty that I stay,
Although your lips sent me away;
And then falls memory's bitter blight,
And dark--so dark becomes the night.
HER EYES TWIN POOLS
Her eyes, twin pools of mystic light,
The blend of star-sheen and black night;
O'er which, to sound their glamouring haze,
A man might bend, and vainly gaze.
Her eyes, twin pools so dark and deep,
In which life's ancient mysteries sleep;
Wherein, to seek the quested goal,
A man might plunge, and lose his soul.
I dreamed that I was a rose
That grew beside a lonely way,
Close by a path none ever chose,
And there I lingered day by day.
Beneath the sunshine and the show'r
I grew and waited there apart,
Gathering perfume hour by hour,
And storing it within my heart,
Yet, never knew,
Just why I waited there and grew.
I dreamed that you were a bee
That one day gaily flew along,
You came across the hedge to me,
And sang a soft, love-burdened song.
You brushed my petals with a kiss,
I woke to gladness with a start,
And yielded up to you in bliss
The treasured fragrance of my heart;
And then I knew
That I had waited there for you.
BEAUTY THAT IS NEVER OLD
When buffeted and beaten by life's storms,
When by the bitter cares of life oppressed,
I want no surer haven than your arms,
I want no sweeter heaven than your breast.
When over my life's way there falls the blight
Of sunless days, and nights of starless skies;
Enough for me, the calm and steadfast light
That softly shines within your loving eyes.
The world, for me, and all the world can hold
Is circled by your arms; for me there lies,
Within the lights and shadows of your eyes,
The only beauty that is never old.
VENUS IN A GARDEN
'Twas at early morning,
The dawn was blushing in her purple bed,
When in a sweet, embowered garden
She, the fairest of the goddesses,
The lovely Venus,
Roamed amongst the roses white and red.
She sought for flowers
To make a garland
For her golden head.
Snow-white roses, blood-red roses,
In that sweet garden close,
Offered incense to the goddess:
Both the white and the crimson rose.
White roses, red roses, blossoming:
But the fair Venus knew
The crimson roses had gained their hue
From the hearts that for love had bled;
And the goddess made a garland
Gathered from the roses red.
I sometimes take you in my dreams to a far-off land I used to know,
Back in the ages long ago; a land of palms and languid streams.
A land, by night, of jeweled skies, by day, of shores that glistened bright,
Within whose arms, outstretched and white, a sapphire sea lay crescent-wise.
Where twilight fell like silver floss, where rose the golden moon half-hid
Behind a shadowy pyramid; a land beneath the Southern Cross.
And there the days dreamed in their flight, each one a poem chanted through,
Which at its close was merged into the muted music of the night.
And you were a princess in those days. And I--I was your serving lad.
But who ever served with heart so glad, or lived so for a word of praise?
And if that word you chanced to speak, how all my senses swayed and reeled,
Till low beside your feet I kneeled, with happiness o'erwrought and weak.
If, when your golden cup I bore, you deigned to lower your eyes to mine,
Eyes cold, yet fervid, like the wine, I knew not how to wish for more.
I trembled at the thought to dare to gaze upon, to scrutinize
The deep-sea mystery of your eyes, the sun-lit splendor of your hair.
To let my timid glances rest upon you long enough to note
How fair and slender was your throat, how white the promise of your breast.
But though I did not dare to chance a lingering look, an open gaze
Upon your beauty's blinding rays, I ventured many a stolen glance.
I fancy, too, (but could not state what trick of mind the fancy caused)
At times your eyes upon me paused, and marked my figure lithe and straight.
Once when my eyes met yours it seemed that in your cheek, despite your pride,
A flush arose and swiftly died; or was it something that I dreamed?
Within your radiance like the star of morning, there I stood and served,
Close by, unheeded, unobserved. You were so near, and, yet, so far.
Ah! just to stretch my hand and touch the musky sandals on your feet!--
My breaking heart! of rapture sweet it never could have held so much.
Oh, beauty-haunted memory! Your face so proud, your eyes so calm,
Your body like a slim young palm, and sinuous as a willow tree.
Caught up beneath your slender arms, and girdled 'round your supple waist,
A robe of curious silk that graced, but only scarce concealed your charms.
A golden band about your head, a crimson jewel at your throat
Which, when the sunlight on it smote, turned to a living heart and bled.
But, oh, that mystic bleeding stone, that work of Nature's magic art,
Which mimicked so a wounded heart, could never bleed as did my own!
Now after ages long and sad, in this stern land we meet anew;
No more a princess proud are you, and I--I am no serving lad.
And yet, dividing us, I meet a wider gulf than that which stood
Between a princess of the blood and him who served low at her feet.
No greater earthly boon than this I crave,
That those who some day gather 'round my grave,
In place of tears, may whisper of me then,
"He sang a song that reached the hearts of men."