PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR (1872-1906)

Discovered

Seen you down at chu'ch las' night,
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

What I mean? Oh, dat's all right,
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

You was sma't ez sma't could be,
But you couldn't hide f'om me.
Ain't I got two eyes to see!
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Guess you thought you's awful keen;
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Evahthing you done, I seen;
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Seen him tek yo' ahm jes' so,
When he got outside de do'-
Oh, I know dat man's yo' beau!
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Say now, honey, wha'd he say?—
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Keep yo' secrets-dat's yo' way-
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Won't tell me an' I'm yo' pal!
I'm gwine tell his othah gal,—
Know huh, too, huh name is Sal.
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.

Compensation

Because I had loved so deeply,
Because I had loved so long,
God in His great compassion
Gave me the gift of song.

Because I have loved so vainly,
And sung with such faltering breath,
The Master, in infinite mercy,

Offers the boon of Death.

FRANCIS SHAW (1872-)

Who Loves the Rain

Who loves the rain,

And loves his home,

And looks on life with quiet eyes,

Him will I follow through the storm;
And at his hearth-fire keep me warm;
Nor hell nor heaven shall that soul surprise,
Who loves the rain,

And loves his home,

And looks on life with quiet eyes.

JOHN COWPER POWYS (1872-)

Candle Light

Hush, true Love, as we sit and think
And talk to shadows and watch the coals
Redden up from beyond the brink
Of the common reach of our souls.

Do you not catch a cry in the air?

No! That is the wind in the chimney calling!
That is a curtain fluttering there!

That is a dead branch falling!

Burning wood when candles are lit

Has a bitter-sweet breath that can carry far;
That can carry two lovers from where they sit
To the edge of the sea and over it
Where the unknown islands are.

Burning wood has a wizard spell

Full of old sad stories and long-dead things;
Like myrrh and cassia is that smell,

From the sepulchres of kings.

And whenever lovers like you and me

Sit together of a winter's night,

There's a cry on the wind, there's a cry on the sea
There's a tongue in the candlelight.

And a great host gathers out of the dark
From wild far places, from sunk sea-walls,
From fallen roofs where hyenas bark
From ruined tents and kraals.

It gathers toward us while you and I
Talk to old shadows and sit and stare,
And let time and space and the world go by
Like smoke upon the air.

And as we gaze at the reddening coals
Lost in that amorous host are we;

That vast procession of lovers' souls
Drowns our identity.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL (1873-1904)

The Sycophantic Fox and the Gullible Raven

A raven sat upon a tree,

And not a word he spoke, for

His beak contained a piece of Brie,
Or, maybe, it was Roquefort.

We'll make it any kind you please-
At all events it was a cheese.

Beneath the tree's umbrageous limb
A hungry fox sat smiling;
He saw the raven watching him,
And spoke in words beguiling:

"J'admire," said he, "ton beau plumage,"
(The which was simply persiflage.)

Two things there are, no doubt you know,
To which a fox is used:

A rooster that is bound to crow,
A crow that's bound to roost;
And whichsoever he espies

He tells the most unblushing lies.

"Sweet fowl," he said, "I understand
You're more than merely natty,
I hear you sing to beat the band
And Adelina Patti.

Pray render with your liquid tongue
A bit from 'Götterdämmerung.'

This subtle speech was aimed to please
The crow, and it succeeded;

He thought no bird in all the trees
Could sing as well as he did.

In flattery completely doused,

He gave the "Jewel Song" from "Faust."

But gravitation's law, of course,
As Isaac Newton showed it,
Exerted on the cheese its force,
And elsewhere soon bestowed it.
In fact, there is no need to tell
What happened when to earth it fell.

I blush to add that when the bird
Took in the situation

He said one brief, emphatic word,
Unfit for publication.

The fox was greatly startled, but
He only sighed and answered "Tut."

THE MORAL is: A fox is bound
To be a shameless sinner.

And also: When the cheese comes round
You know it's after dinner.

But (what is only known to few)
The fox is after dinner, too.

ARTHUR STRINGER (1874-)

You Bid Me to Sleep

You bid me to sleep,

But why, O Daughter of Beauty,
Was beauty thus born in the world?

Since out of these shadowy eyes

The wonder shall pass!

And out of this surging and passionate breast
The dream shall depart!

And out of these delicate rivers of warmth
The fire shall wither and fail!

And youth like a bird from your body shall fly!
And Time like a fang on your flesh shall feed!
And this perilous bosom that pulses with love
Shall go down to the dust from which it arose,-
Yet Daughter of Beauty, close,

Close to its sumptuous warmth
You hold my sorrowing head,
And smile with shadowy eyes,
And bid me to sleep again!

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY (1874-)
The Singing Man

He sang above the vineyards of the world.
And after him the vines with woven hands
Clambered and clung, and everywhere unfurled
Triumphing green above the barren lands;

Till high as gardens grow, he climbed, he stood,
Sun-crowned with life and strength, and singing toil,
And looked upon his work; and it was good;
The corn, the wine, the oil.

He sang above the noon. The topmost cleft
That grudged him footing on the mountain scars
He planted and despaired not; till he left

His vines soft breathing to the host of stars.
He wrought, he tilled; and even as he sang,
The creatures of his planting laughed to scorn
The ancient threat of deserts where there sprang
The wine, the oil, the corn!

He sang not for abundance.-Over-lords

Took of his tilth. Yet was there still to reap, The portion of his labor; dear rewards

Of sunlit day, and bread, and human sleep. He sang for strength; for glory of the light. He dreamed above the furrows, "They are mine!" When all he wrought stood fair before his sight With corn, and oil, and wine.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

Grieve Not, Ladies

Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night
Ye wake to feel your beauty going.
It was a web of frail delight,

Inconstant as an April snowing.

In other eyes, in other lands,

In deep fair pools, new beauty lingers,
But like spent water in your hands
It runs from your reluctant fingers.

Ye shall not keep the singing lark
That owes to earlier skies its duty.
Weep not to hear along the dark

The sound of your departing beauty.

The fine and anguished ear of night

Is tuned to hear the smallest sorrow.
Oh, wait until the morning light!

It may not seem so gone to-morrow!