The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar · Part XII

LYRICS OF THE HEARTHSIDE

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.

OVER THE HILLS

Over the hills and the valleys of dreaming Slowly I take my way. Life is the night with its dream-visions teeming, Death is the waking at day.

Down thro' the dales and the bowers of loving, Singing, I roam afar. Daytime or night-time, I constantly roving,-- Dearest one, thou art my star.

WITH THE LARK

Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy, Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy; Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,-- Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong. All the night through, though I moan in the dark, I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves, Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves. But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky, I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry; And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark, I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be, Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree, There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known, For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own; And though life has been hard and death's pathway been dark, I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

IN SUMMER

Oh, summer has clothed the earth In a cloak from the loom of the sun! And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue, And a belt where the rivers run.

And now for the kiss of the wind, And the touch of the air's soft hands, With the rest from strife and the heat of life, With the freedom of lakes and lands.

I envy the farmer's boy Who sings as he follows the plow; While the shining green of the young blades lean To the breezes that cool his brow.

He sings to the dewy morn, No thought of another's ear; But the song he sings is a chant for kings And the whole wide world to hear.

He sings of the joys of life, Of the pleasures of work and rest, From an o'erfull heart, without aim or art; 'T is a song of the merriest.

O ye who toil in the town, And ye who moil in the mart, Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong Shall renew your joy of heart.

Oh, poor were the worth of the world If never a song were heard,-- If the sting of grief had no relief, And never a heart were stirred.

So, long as the streams run down, And as long as the robins trill, Let us taunt old Care with a merry air, And sing in the face of ill.

THE MYSTIC SEA

The smell of the sea in my nostrils, The sound of the sea in mine ears; The touch of the spray on my burning face, Like the mist of reluctant tears.

The blue of the sky above me, The green of the waves beneath; The sun flashing down on a gray-white sail Like a scimitar from its sheath.

And ever the breaking billows, And ever the rocks' disdain; And ever a thrill in mine inmost heart That my reason cannot explain.

So I say to my heart, "Be silent, The mystery of time is here; Death's way will be plain when we fathom the main, And the secret of life be clear."

A SAILOR'S SONG

Oh for the breath of the briny deep, And the tug of the bellying sail, With the sea-gull's cry across the sky And a passing boatman's hail. For, be she fierce or be she gay, The sea is a famous friend alway.

Ho! for the plains where the dolphins play, And the bend of the mast and spars, And a fight at night with the wild sea-sprite When the foam has drowned the stars. And, pray, what joy can the landsman feel Like the rise and fall of a sliding keel?

Fair is the mead; the lawn is fair And the birds sing sweet on the lea; But the echo soft of a song aloft Is the strain that pleases me; And swish of rope and ring of chain Are music to men who sail the main.

Then, if you love me, let me sail While a vessel dares the deep; For the ship 's my wife, and the breath of life Are the raging gales that sweep; And when I 'm done with calm and blast, A slide o'er the side, and rest at last.

THE BOHEMIAN

Bring me the livery of no other man. I am my own to robe me at my pleasure. Accepted rules to me disclose no treasure: What is the chief who shall my garments plan? No garb conventional but I 'll attack it. (Come, why not don my spangled jacket?)

ABSENCE

Good-night, my love, for I have dreamed of thee In waking dreams, until my soul is lost-- Is lost in passion's wide and shoreless sea, Where, like a ship, unruddered, it is tost Hither and thither at the wild waves' will. There is no potent Master's voice to still This newer, more tempestuous Galilee!

The stormy petrels of my fancy fly In warning course across the darkening green, And, like a frightened bird, my heart doth cry And seek to find some rock of rest between The threatening sky and the relentless wave. It is not length of life that grief doth crave, But only calm and peace in which to die.

Here let me rest upon this single hope, For oh, my wings are weary of the wind, And with its stress no more may strive or cope. One cry has dulled mine ears, mine eyes are blind,-- Would that o'er all the intervening space, I might fly forth and see thee face to face. I fly; I search, but, love, in gloom I grope.

Fly home, far bird, unto thy waiting nest; Spread thy strong wings above the wind-swept sea. Beat the grim breeze with thy unruffled breast Until thou sittest wing to wing with me. Then, let the past bring up its tales of wrong; We shall chant low our sweet connubial song, Till storm and doubt and past no more shall be!

HER THOUGHT AND HIS

The gray of the sea, and the gray of the sky, A glimpse of the moon like a half-closed eye. The gleam on the waves and the light on the land, A thrill in my heart,--and--my sweetheart's hand.

She turned from the sea with a woman's grace, And the light fell soft on her upturned face, And I thought of the flood-tide of infinite bliss That would flow to my heart from a single kiss.

But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask. But into her face there came a flame:-- I wonder could she have been thinking the same?

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.

WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES

In the forenoon's restful quiet, When the boys are off at school, When the window lights are shaded And the chimney-corner cool, Then the old man seeks his armchair, Lights his pipe and settles back; Falls a-dreaming as he draws it Till the smoke-wreaths gather black.

And the tear-drops come a-trickling Down his cheeks, a silver flow-- Smoke or memories you wonder, But you never ask him,--no; For there 's something almost sacred To the other family folks In those moods of silent dreaming When the old man smokes.

Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming Of the love of other days And of how he used to lead her Through the merry dance's maze; How he called her "little princess," And, to please her, used to twine Tender wreaths to crown her tresses, From the "matrimony vine."

Then before his mental vision Comes, perhaps, a sadder day, When they left his little princess Sleeping with her fellow clay. How his young heart throbbed, and pained him! Why, the memory of it chokes! Is it of these things he 's thinking When the old man smokes?

But some brighter thoughts possess him, For the tears are dried the while. And the old, worn face is wrinkled In a reminiscent smile, From the middle of the forehead To the feebly trembling lip, At some ancient prank remembered Or some long unheard-of quip.

Then the lips relax their tension And the pipe begins to slide, Till in little clouds of ashes, It falls softly at his side; And his head bends low and lower Till his chin lies on his breast, And he sits in peaceful slumber Like a little child at rest.

Dear old man, there 's something sad'ning, In these dreamy moods of yours, Since the present proves so fleeting, All the past for you endures. Weeping at forgotten sorrows, Smiling at forgotten jokes; Life epitomized in minutes, When the old man smokes.

THE GARRET

Within a London garret high, Above the roofs and near the sky, My ill-rewarding pen I ply To win me bread. This little chamber, six by four, Is castle, study, den, and more,-- Altho' no carpet decks the floor, Nor down, the bed.

My room is rather bleak and bare; I only have one broken chair, But then, there's plenty of fresh air,-- Some light, beside. What tho' I cannot ask my friends To share with me my odds and ends, A liberty my aerie lends, To most denied.

The bore who falters at the stair No more shall be my curse and care, And duns shall fail to find my lair With beastly bills. When debts have grown and funds are short, I find it rather pleasant sport To live "above the common sort" With all their ills.

I write my rhymes and sing away, And dawn may come or dusk or day: Tho' fare be poor, my heart is gay. And full of glee. Though chimney-pots be all my views; 'T is nearer for the winging Muse, So I am sure she 'll not refuse To visit me.

TO E. H. K.

ON THE RECEIPT OF A FAMILIAR POEM

To me, like hauntings of a vagrant breath From some far forest which I once have known, The perfume of this flower of verse is blown. Tho' seemingly soul-blossoms faint to death, Naught that with joy she bears e'er withereth. So, tho' the pregnant years have come and flown, Lives come and gone and altered like mine own, This poem comes to me a shibboleth: Brings sound of past communings to my ear, Turns round the tide of time and bears me back Along an old and long untraversed way; Makes me forget this is a later year, Makes me tread o'er a reminiscent track, Half sad, half glad, to one forgotten day!

A BRIDAL MEASURE

Come, essay a sprightly measure, Tuned to some light song of pleasure. Maidens, let your brows be crowned As we foot this merry round.

From the ground a voice is singing, From the sod a soul is springing. Who shall say 't is but a clod Quick'ning upward toward its God?

Who shall say it? Who may know it, That the clod is not a poet Waiting but a gleam to waken In a spirit music-shaken?

Phyllis, Phyllis, why be waiting? In the woods the birds are mating. From the tree beside the wall, Hear the am'rous robin call.

Listen to yon thrush's trilling; Phyllis, Phyllis, are you willing, When love speaks from cave and tree, Only we should silent be?

When the year, itself renewing, All the world with flowers is strewing, Then through Youth's Arcadian land, Love and song go hand in hand.

Come, unfold your vocal treasure, Sing with me a nuptial measure,-- Let this springtime gambol be Bridal dance for you and me.

VENGEANCE IS SWEET

When I was young I longed for Love, And held his glory far above All other earthly things. I cried: "Come, Love, dear Love, with me abide;" And with my subtlest art I wooed, And eagerly the wight pursued. But Love was gay and Love was shy, He laughed at me and passed me by.

Well, I grew old and I grew gray, When Wealth came wending down my way. I took his golden hand with glee, And comrades from that day were we. Then Love came back with doleful face, And prayed that I would give him place. But, though his eyes with tears were dim, I turned my back and laughed at him.

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.