The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar · Part XIII

Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For fear that I may fall; I know not where to go Unless I hear thy call.

My fainting soul doth yearn For thy green hills afar; So let thy mercy burn-- My greater, guiding star!

JUST WHISTLE A BIT

Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark, And the sky be overcast: If mute be the voice of the piping lark, Why, pipe your own small blast.

And it's wonderful how o'er the gray sky-track The truant warbler comes stealing back. But why need he come? for your soul's at rest, And the song in the heart,--ah, that is best.

Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear And the stars refuse to shine: And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear Within you glows benign.

Till the dearth of light in the glooming skies Is lost to the sight of your soul-lit eyes. What matters the absence of moon or star? The light within is the best by far.

Just whistle a bit, if there 's work to do, With the mind or in the soil. And your note will turn out a talisman true To exorcise grim Toil.

It will lighten your burden and make you feel That there 's nothing like work as a sauce for a meal. And with song in your heart and the meal in--its place, There 'll be joy in your bosom and light in your face.

Just whistle a bit, if your heart be sore; 'Tis a wonderful balm for pain. Just pipe some old melody o'er and o'er Till it soothes like summer rain.

And perhaps 't would be best in a later day, When Death comes stalking down the way, To knock at your bosom and see if you 're fit, Then, as you wait calmly, just whistle a bit.

THE BARRIER

The Midnight wooed the Morning-Star, And prayed her: "Love come nearer; Your swinging coldly there afar To me but makes you dearer!"

The Morning-Star was pale with dole As said she, low replying: "Oh, lover mine, soul of my soul, For you I too am sighing.

"But One ordained when we were born, In spite of Love's insistence, That Night might only view the Morn Adoring at a distance."

But as she spoke the jealous Sun Across the heavens panted. "Oh, whining fools," he cried, "have done; Your wishes shall be granted!"

He hurled his flaming lances far; The twain stood unaffrighted-- And Midnight and the Morning-Star Lay down in death united!

DREAMS

Dream on, for dreams are sweet: Do not awaken! Dream on, and at thy feet Pomegranates shall be shaken.

Who likeneth the youth Of life to morning? 'Tis like the night in truth, Rose-coloured dreams adorning.

The wind is soft above, The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.) Take thou the fullest slumber!

In Lethe's soothing stream, Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep; 't is sweet to dream. Oh, weep when thou awakest!

THE DREAMER

Temples he built and palaces of air, And, with the artist's parent-pride aglow, His fancy saw his vague ideals grow Into creations marvellously fair;

He set his foot upon Fame's nether stair. But ah, his dream,--it had entranced him so He could not move. He could no farther go; But paused in joy that he was even there!

He did not wake until one day there gleamed Thro' his dark consciousness a light that racked His being till he rose, alert to act. But lo! what he had dreamed, the while he dreamed, Another, wedding action unto thought, Into the living, pulsing world had brought.

WAITING

The sun has slipped his tether And galloped down the west. (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) The little bird is sleeping In the softness of its nest. Night follows day, day follows dawn, And so the time has come and gone: And it's weary, weary waiting, love.

The cruel wind is rising With a whistle and a wail. (And it's weary, weary waiting, love.) My eyes are seaward straining For the coming of a sail; But void the sea, and void the beach Far and beyond where gaze can reach! And it's weary, weary waiting, love.

I heard the bell-buoy ringing-- How long ago it seems! (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) And ever still, its knelling Crashes in upon my dreams. The banns were read, my frock was sewn; Since then two seasons' winds have blown-- And it's weary, weary waiting, love.

The stretches of the ocean Are bare and bleak to-day. (Oh, it's weary, weary waiting, love.) My eyes are growing dimmer-- Is it tears, or age, or spray? But I will stay till you come home. Strange ships come in across the foam! But it's weary, weary waiting, love.

THE END OF THE CHAPTER

Ah, yes, the chapter ends to-day; We even lay the book away; But oh, how sweet the moments sped Before the final page was read!

We tried to read between the lines The Author's deep-concealed designs; But scant reward such search secures; You saw my heart and I saw yours.

The Master,--He who penned the page And bade us read it,--He is sage: And what he orders, you and I Can but obey, nor question why.

We read together and forgot The world about us. Time was not. Unheeded and unfelt, it fled. We read and hardly knew we read.

Until beneath a sadder sun, We came to know the book was done. Then, as our minds were but new lit, It dawned upon us what was writ;

And we were startled. In our eyes, Looked forth the light of great surprise. Then as a deep-toned tocsin tolls, A voice spoke forth: "Behold your souls!"

I do, I do. I cannot look Into your eyes: so close the book. But brought it grief or brought it bliss, No other page shall read like this!

SYMPATHY

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!

LOVE AND GRIEF

Out of my heart, one treach'rous winter's day, I locked young Love and threw the key away. Grief, wandering widely, found the key, And hastened with it, straightway, back to me, With Love beside him. He unlocked the door And bade Love enter with him there and stay. And so the twain abide for evermore.

LOVE'S CHASTENING

Once Love grew bold and arrogant of air, Proud of the youth that made him fresh and fair; So unto Grief he spake, "What right hast thou To part or parcel of this heart?" Grief's brow Was darkened with the storm of inward strife; Thrice smote he Love as only he might dare, And Love, pride purged, was chastened all his life.

MORTALITY

Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust, What of his loving, what of his lust? What of his passion, what of his pain? What of his poverty, what of his pride? Earth, the great mother, has called him again: Deeply he sleeps, the world's verdict defied. Shall he be tried again? Shall he go free? Who shall the court convene? Where shall it be? No answer on the land, none from the sea. Only we know that as he did, we must: You with your theories, you with your trust,-- Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust!

LOVE

A life was mine full of the close concern Of many-voiced affairs. The world sped fast; Behind me, ever rolled a pregnant past. A present came equipped with lore to learn. Art, science, letters, in their turn, Each one allured me with its treasures vast; And I staked all for wisdom, till at last Thou cam'st and taught my soul anew to yearn. I had not dreamed that I could turn away From all that men with brush and pen had wrought; But ever since that memorable day When to my heart the truth of love was brought, I have been wholly yielded to its sway, And had no room for any other thought.

SHE GAVE ME A ROSE

She gave a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it. I love her, she knows, And my action confessed it. She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it.

Ah, how my heart glows, Could I ever have guessed it? It is fair to suppose That I might have repressed it: She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it.

'T was a rhyme in life's prose That uplifted and blest it. Man's nature, who knows Until love comes to test it? She gave me a rose, And I kissed it and pressed it.

DREAM SONG I

Long years ago, within a distant clime, Ere Love had touched me with his wand sublime, I dreamed of one to make my life's calm May The panting passion of a summer's day. And ever since, in almost sad suspense, I have been waiting with a soul intense To greet and take unto myself the beams, Of her, my star, the lady of my dreams.

O Love, still longed and looked for, come to me, Be thy far home by mountain, vale, or sea. My yearning heart may never find its rest Until thou liest rapt upon my breast. The wind may bring its perfume from the south, Is it so sweet as breath from my love's mouth? Oh, naught that surely is, and naught that seems May turn me from the lady of my dreams.

DREAM SONG II

Pray, what can dreams avail To make love or to mar? The child within the cradle rail Lies dreaming of the star. But is the star by this beguiled To leave its place and seek the child?

The poor plucked rose within its glass Still dreameth of the bee; But, tho' the lagging moments pass, Her Love she may not see. If dream of child and flower fail, Why should a maiden's dreams prevail?

CHRISTMAS IN THE HEART

The snow lies deep upon the ground, And winter's brightness all around Decks bravely out the forest sere, With jewels of the brave old year. The coasting crowd upon the hill With some new spirit seems to thrill; And all the temple bells achime. Ring out the glee of Christmas time.

In happy homes the brown oak-bough Vies with the red-gemmed holly now; And here and there, like pearls, there show The berries of the mistletoe. A sprig upon the chandelier Says to the maidens, "Come not here!" Even the pauper of the earth Some kindly gift has cheered to mirth!

Within his chamber, dim and cold, There sits a grasping miser old. He has no thought save one of gain,-- To grind and gather and grasp and drain. A peal of bells, a merry shout Assail his ear: he gazes out Upon a world to him all gray, And snarls, "Why, this is Christmas Day!"

No, man of ice,--for shame, for shame! For "Christmas Day" is no mere name. No, not for you this ringing cheer, This festal season of the year. And not for you the chime of bells From holy temple rolls and swells. In day and deed he has no part-- Who holds not Christmas in his heart!

THE KING IS DEAD

Aye, lay him in his grave, the old dead year! His life is lived--fulfilled his destiny. Have you for him no sad, regretful tear To drop beside the cold, unfollowed bier? Can you not pay the tribute of a sigh?

Was he not kind to you, this dead old year? Did he not give enough of earthly store? Enough of love, and laughter, and good cheer? Have not the skies you scanned sometimes been clear? How, then, of him who dies, could you ask more?

It is not well to hate him for the pain He brought you, and the sorrows manifold. To pardon him these hurts still I am fain; For in the panting period of his reign, He brought me new wounds, but he healed the old.

One little sigh for thee, my poor, dead friend-- One little sigh while my companions sing. Thou art so soon forgotten in the end; We cry e'en as thy footsteps downward tend: "The king is dead! long live the king!"

THEOLOGY

There is a heaven, for ever, day by day, The upward longing of my soul doth tell me so. There is a hell, I 'm quite as sure; for pray, If there were not, where would my neighbours go?

RESIGNATION

Long had I grieved at what I deemed abuse; But now I am as grain within the mill. If so be thou must crush me for thy use, Grind on, O potent God, and do thy will!

LOVE'S HUMILITY

As some rapt gazer on the lowly earth, Looks up to radiant planets, ranging far, So I, whose soul doth know thy wondrous worth Look longing up to thee as to a star.

PRECEDENT

The poor man went to the rich man's doors, "I come as Lazarus came," he said. The rich man turned with humble head,-- "I will send my dogs to lick your sores!"

SHE TOLD HER BEADS

She told her beads with down-cast eyes, Within the ancient chapel dim; And ever as her fingers slim Slipt o'er th' insensate ivories, My rapt soul followed, spaniel-wise. Ah, many were the beads she wore; But as she told them o'er and o'er, They did not number all my sighs. My heart was filled with unvoiced cries And prayers and pleadings unexpressed; But while I burned with Love's unrest, She told her beads with down-cast eyes.

LITTLE LUCY LANDMAN

Oh, the day has set me dreaming In a strange, half solemn way Of the feelings I experienced On another long past day,-- Of the way my heart made music When the buds began to blow, And o' little Lucy Landman Whom I loved long years ago.

It 's in spring, the poet tells us, That we turn to thoughts of love, And our hearts go out a-wooing With the lapwing and the dove. But whene'er the soul goes seeking Its twin-soul, upon the wing, I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry, That it's love that makes the spring.

I have heard a robin singing When the boughs were brown and bare, And the chilling hand of winter Scattered jewels through the air. And in spite of dates and seasons, It was always spring, I know, When I loved Lucy Landman In the days of long ago.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman, I remember you as well As if 't were only yesterday I strove your thoughts to tell,-- When I tilted back your bonnet, Looked into your eyes so true, Just to see if you were loving Me as I was loving you.

Ah, my little Lucy Landman It is true it was denied You should see a fuller summer And an autumn by my side. But the glance of love's sweet sunlight Which your eyes that morning gave Has kept spring within my bosom, Though you lie within the grave.

THE GOURD

In the heavy earth the miner Toiled and laboured day by day, Wrenching from the miser mountain Brilliant treasure where it lay. And the artist worn and weary Wrought with labour manifold That the king might drink his nectar From a goblet made of gold.

On the prince's groaning table Mid the silver gleaming bright Mirroring the happy faces Giving back the flaming light, Shine the cups of priceless crystal Chased with many a lovely line, Glowing now with warmer colour, Crimsoned by the ruby wine.