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Paul laurence dunbar

Paul Laurence Dunbar

POEMAS
SEGUIDORES
6

Little Miss Margaret sits in a pout,
She and her Dolly have just fallen out.

Dolly is gazing with sorest stare,
Fitted dejectedly back in her chair.

Angry at Margaret, tearful and grieved,
Sore at the spanking so lately received.

Pursed are the maiden’s lips close as can be,
They are not speaking, Miss Dolly and she.

Five minutes passes in silence and then,
Margaret’s ready for playing again.

Dolly unbendingly sits in her place,
Never a change coming over her face.

Up mad goes, Margaret dropping her pout,
Clasping her playmate she whispers in doubt.

Let’s don’t play and cry, it’s too much like true,
Let’s make up Dolly I ain’t mad is you?

I 's boun’ to see my gal to—night—
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
De moon ain’t out, de stars ain’t bright—
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
Dis hoss o’ mine is pow’ful slow,
But when I does git to yo’ do’
Yo’ kiss 'll pay me back, an’ mo’,
Dough lone de way, my dearie.

De night is skeery—lak an’ still—
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
'Cept fu’ dat mou’nful whippo’will—
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
De way so long wif dis slow pace,
‘T ’u’d seem to me lak savin’ grace
Ef you was on a nearer place,
Fu’ lone de way, my dearie.

I hyeah de hootin’ of de owl—
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
I wish dat watch—dog would n’t howl:—
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!
An’ evaht’ing, bofe right an’ lef’,
Seem p’int’ly lak hit put itse’f
In shape to skeer me half to def—
Oh, lone de way, my dearie!

I whistles so’s I won’t be feared—
Oh lone de way, my dearie!
But anyhow I’s kin’ o’ skeered,
Fu’ lone de way, my dearie.
De sky been lookin’ mighty glum,
But you kin mek hit lighten some,
Ef you 'll jes’ say you’s glad I come,
Dough lone de way, my dearie.

By Mystic’s banks I held my dream.
(I held my fishing rod as well,)
The vision was of dace and bream,
A fruitless vision, sooth to tell.
But round about the sylvan dell
Were other sweet Arcadian shrines,
Gone now, is all the rural spell,
Arcadia has trolley lines.

Oh, once loved, sluggish, darkling stream,
For me no more, thy waters swell,
Thy music now the engines’ scream,
Thy fragrance now the factory’s smell;
Too near for me the clanging bell;
A false light in the water shines
While Solitude lists to her knell,—
Arcadia has trolley lines.

Thy wooded lanes with shade and gleam
Where bloomed the fragrant asphodel,
Now bleak commercially teem
With signs ‘To Let,’ ‘To Buy,’ ‘To Sell.’
And Commerce holds them fierce and fell;
With vulgar sport she now combines
Sweet Nature’s piping voice to quell.
Arcadia has trolley lines.

DEAR heart, good—night!
Nay, list awhile that sweet voice singing
When the world is all so bright,
And the sound of song sets the heart a—ringing,
Oh, love, it is not right—
Not then to say, ‘Good—night.’
Dear heart, good—night!
The late winds in the lake weeds shiver,
And the spray flies cold and white.
And the voice that sings gives a telltale quiver —
‘Ah, yes, the world is bright,
But, dearest heart, good—night!’
Dear heart, good—night!
And do not longer seek to hold me!
For my soul is in affright
As the fearful glooms in their pall enfold me.
See him who sang how white
And still; so, dear, good—night.
Dear heart, good—night!
Thy hand I’ll press no more forever,
And mine eyes shall lose the light;
For the great white wraith by the winding river
Shall check my steps with might.
So, dear, good—night, good—night!

'SUNSHINE on de medders,
Greenness on de way;
Dat’s de blessed reason
I sing all de day.'
Look hyeah! Whut you axin’?
Whut meks me so merry?
'Spect to see me sighin’
W’en hit’s wa’m in Febawary?
'Long de stake an’ rider
Seen a robin set;
W’y, hit 'mence a—thawin’,
Groun’ is monst’ous wet.
Den you stan’ dah wond’rin’,
'Lookin’ skeert an’ stary;
I’s a right to caper
W’en hit’s wa’m in Febawary.
Missis gone a—drivin’,
Mastah gone to shoot;
Ev’ry da’ky lazin’
In de sun to boot.
Qua’tah’s moughty pleasant,
Hangin’ 'roun’ my Mary;
Cou’tin’ boun’ to prospah
W’en hit’s wa’m in Febawary.
Cidah’ look so pu’ty,
Po’in’ f’om de jug—
Don’ you see it’s happy?
Hyeah it laffin’ —glug?
Now’s de time fu’ people
Fu’ to try an’ bury
All dey grief an’ sorrer,
W’en hit’s wa’m in Febawary.

WHAT if the wind do howl without,
And turn the creaking weather—vane;
What if the arrows of the rain
Do beat against the window—pane?
Art thou not armored strong and fast
Against the sallies of the blast?
Art thou not sheltered safe and well
Against the flood’s insistent swell?
What boots it, that thou stand’st alone,
And laughest in the battle’s face
When all the weak have fled the place
And let their feet and fears keep pace?
Thou wavest still thine ensign, high,
And shoutest thy loud battle—cry;
Higher than e’er the tempest roared,
It cleaves the silence like a sword.
Right arms and armors, too, that man
Who will not compromise with wrong;
Though single, he must front the throng,
And wage the battle hard and long.
Minorities, since time began,
Have shown the better side of man;
And often in the lists of Time
One man has made a cause sublime!

I BE’N down in ole Kentucky
Fur a week er two, an’ say,
'T wuz ez hard ez breakin’ oxen
Fur to tear myse’f away.
Allus argerin’ 'bout fren’ship
An’ yer hospitality—
Y’ ain’t no right to talk about it
Tell you be’n down there to see.

See jest how they give you welcome
To the best that 's in the land,
Feel the sort o’ grip they give you
When they take you by the hand.
Hear ‘em say, ’We ‘re glad to have you,
Better stay a week er two;’
An’ the way they treat you makes you
Feel that ev’ry word is true.

Feed you tell you hear the buttons
Crackin’ on yore Sunday vest;
Haul you roun’ to see the wonders
Tell you have to cry for rest.
Drink yer health an’ pet an’ praise you
Tell you git to feel ez great
Ez the Sheriff o’ the county
Er the Gov’ner o’ the State.

Wife, she sez I must be crazy
'Cause I go on so, an’ Nelse
He ‘lows, ’Goodness gracious! daddy,
Cain’t you talk about nuthin’ else?'
Well, pleg—gone it, I 'm jes’ tickled,
Bein’ tickled ain’t no sin;
I be’n down in ole Kentucky,
An’ I want o’ go ag’in

This is to—day, a golden summer’s day
And yet—and yet
My vengeful soul will not forget
The past, forever now forgot, you say.

From that half height where I had sadly climbed,
I stretched my hand,
I lone in all that land,
Down there, where, helpless, you were limed.

Our fingers clasped, and dragging me a pace,
You struggled up.
It is a bitter Cup,
That now for naught, you turn away your face.

I shall remember this for aye and aye.
Whate’er may come,
Although my lips are dumb,
My spirit holds you to that yesterday.

When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine
And the summer days are in their bloom,
Then my love is deepest, oh, dearest heart of mine,
When the bees are humming in the honeysuckle vine.

When the winds are moaning o’er the meadows chill and gray,
And the land is dim with winter gloom,
Then for thee, my darling, love will have its way,
When the winds are moaning o’er the meadows chill and gray.

In the vernal dawning with the starting of the leaf,
In the merry—chanting time of spring,
Love steals all my senses, oh, the happy—hearted thief!
In the vernal morning with the starting of the leaf.

Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear,
When the days are sighing out their grief,
Thou art still my darling, dearest of the dear,
Always, ever always, even in the autumn drear.

Come on walkin’ wid me, Lucy; 't ain’t no time to mope erroun’
Wen de sunshine 's shoutin’ glory in de sky,
An’ de little Johnny—Jump—Ups 's jes’ a—springin’ f’om de groun’,
Den a—lookin’ roun’ to ax each othah w’y.
Don’ you hyeah dem cows a—mooin’? Dat 's dey howdy to de spring;
Ain’ dey lookin’ most oncommon satisfied?
Hit 's enough to mek a body want to spread dey mouf an’ sing
Jes’ to see de critters all so spa’klin’—eyed.

W’y dat squir’l dat jes’ run past us, ef I did n’ know his tricks,
I could swaih he ‘d got ’uligion jes’ to—day;
An’ dem liza’ds slippin’ back an’ fofe ermong de stones an’ sticks
Is a—wigglin’ 'cause dey feel so awful gay.
Oh, I see yo’ eyes a—shinin’ dough you try to mek me b’lieve
Dat you ain’ so monst’ous happy 'cause you come;
But I tell you dis hyeah weathah meks it moughty ha’d to 'ceive
Ef a body’s soul ain’ blin’ an’ deef an’ dumb.

Robin whistlin’ ovah yandah ez he buil’ his little nes’;
Whut you reckon dat he sayin’ to his mate?
He’s a—sayin’ dat he love huh in de wo’ds she know de bes’,
An’ she lookin’ moughty pleased at whut he state.
Now, Miss Lucy, dat ah robin sholy got his sheer o’ sense,
An’ de hen—bird got huh mothah—wit fu’ true;
So I t’ink ef you 'll ixcuse me, fu’ I do’ mean no erfence,
Dey 's a lesson in dem birds fu’ me an’ you.

I 's a—buil’in’ o’ my cabin, an’ I 's vines erbove de do’
Fu’ to kin’ o’ gin it sheltah f’om de sun;
Gwine to have a little kitchen wid a reg’lar wooden flo’,
An’ dey 'll be a back verandy w’en hit ‘s done.
I ’s a—waitin’ fu’ you, Lucy, tek de 'zample o’ de birds,
Dat 's a—lovin’ an’ a—matin’ evahwhaih.
I cain’ tell you dat I loves you in de robin’s music wo’ds,
But my cabin 's talkin’ fu’ me ovah thaih!

Oh, what shall I do? I am wholly upset;
I am sure I ‘ll be jailed for a lunatic yet.
I ’ll be out of a job—it’s the thing to expect
When I ‘m letting my duty go by with neglect.
You may judge the extent and degree of my plight
When I ’m thinking all day and a—dreaming all night,
And a—trying my hand at a rhyme on the sly,
All on account of a sparkling eye.

There are those who say men should be strong, well—a—day!
But what constitutes strength in a man? Who shall say?
I am strong as the most when it comes to the arm.
I have aye held my own on the playground or farm.
And when I 've been tempted, I haven’t been weak;
But now—why, I tremble to hear a maid speak.
I used to be bold, but now I 've grown shy,
And all on account of a sparkling eye.

There once was a time when my heart was devout,
But now my religion is open to doubt.
When parson is earnestly preaching of grace,
My fancy is busy with drawing a face,
Thro’ the back of a bonnet most piously plain;
‘I draw it, redraw it, and draw it again.’
While the songs and the sermon unheeded go by,—
All on account of a sparkling eye.

Oh, dear little conjurer, give o’er your wiles,
It is easy for you, you’re all blushes and smiles:
But, love of my heart, I am sorely perplexed;
I am smiling one minute and sighing the next;
And if it goes on, I ‘ll drop hackle and flail,
And go to the parson and tell him my tale.
I warrant he ’ll find me a cure for the sigh
That you 're aye bringing forth with the glance of your eye.

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!