For Your Sweet Sake: Poems

BORN LIKE THE PINES.

Born like the pines to sing, The harp and song in m’ breast, Though far and near, There’s none to hear, I’ll sing as th’ winds request.

To tell the trend of m’ lay, Is not for th’ harp or me; I’m only to know, From the winds that blow, What th’ theme of m’ song shall be.

Born like the pines to sing, The harp and th’ song in m’ breast, As th’ winds sweep by, I’ll laugh or cry, In th’ winds I cannot rest.

A MYSTERY.

I do not know the ocean’s song, Or what the brooklets say; At eve I sit and listen long, I cannot learn their lay. But as I linger by the sea, And that sweet song comes unto me, It seems, my love, it sings of thee.

I do not know why poppies grow, Amid the wheat and rye, The lillies bloom as white as snow, I cannot tell you why. But all the flowers of the spring, The bees that hum, the birds that sing, A thought of you they seem to bring.

I cannot tell why silvery Mars, Moves through the heav’ns at night; I cannot tell you why the stars, Adorn the vault with light. But what sublimity I see, Upon the mount, the hill, the lea, It brings, my love, a thought of thee.

I do not know what in your eyes, That caused my heart to glow, And why my spirit longs and cries, I vow, I do not know. But when you first came in my sight, My slumbering soul awoke in light, And since the day I’ve known no night.

THE SPIRIT OF THE OAK.

The spirit of the oak am I, With head uplifted to the sky, Though hail and storm beat in my face, Through weal or woe I hold my place, With head uplifted to the sky, The spirit of the oak am I.

Birds I have sheltered many a year, They hear the storm, desert in fear, The strenuous eagle strives to stay, But, ah! at last his heart gives way, He stretches forth his feathered form, And sails to heaven above the storm.

Devoid of every earthly friend, I stand undaunted till the end, With head uplifted to the sky-- The spirit of the oak am I.

And when the raging storm is o’er, My feathered friends return once more, And find me standing calm and free; They chirp aloud and sing with glee, With outstretched arm I bid them rest, I hold no malice in my breast, But welcome every passer-by-- The spirit of the oak am I.

“HOME SICK.”

Sittin’ by de windo’, Gazin’ at de snow, Up here in de Norf land, No friends dat I know.

Lord, if I was dare! Peaceful, happy Georgia, Tired of de rip an’ tare, Sick ob ways o’ city.

No one hear to talk to, ’Bout de joy I’s seen, Speak ob possum huntin’-- Don’ no what yo’ mean.

Banjo lyin’ idle, Not allow’d to play, People in de nex’ room, Too much noise, da’ say.

Write hum’ fo’ a ticket? Dat ’ould be no use, Sent me one las’ summer, Sole’ it like a goose.

Way too long fo’ walkin’, Snow a fallin’, too, Lord a mercy on me, Wh’t am I to do?

Com’ hear little banjo, Lie close to my ear, I’ll jus’ pic’ yo’ easy, So dem fools can’ hear.

What! you say der postman, Letter he’r fo’ me, No, I jus’ can’ b’leve it, Han’ me; let me see.

Yes dis is her writin’, Ticket too hav’ com’, Com’ on little banjo, Com’, I’m goin’ hom’.

DES FO’ DAY.

When fo’ yeahs yo’ve been er tryin’ ’N’ de thing fo’ wh’t yer tries, Ez yo’ reach yer han’ ter t’ke it, Des mov’s off bufore yer eyes, ’N’ yer thro’ er side yer shovel, Like yer ain’t goin’ wohk no mo’, ’N’ yer wonder whur’s ole Gabr’l, What’s de re’son he don’t blo’; Den yer wan’ ter wohk de harder, Fo’ ise allus he’rd um say, De darkes’ hour, Des fo’ day.

Co’rse its hard ter keep on runnin’, When de stake keeps movin’ ’way, ’N’ ter hav’ er mind fo’ wohkin, When yer think der ain’t no pay, But puhaps when clouds er blackes’, ’N’ der worl’ seems at its wu’s, Dat it all com’s on er pu’pus, Maby it fo’ warnin’ us, Den yer wan’ ter wohk de harder, Fo’ ize allus he’rd um say, De darkes’ hour, Des fo’ day.

MY SOUL’S AT REST.

J’s ’bout d’hk I com’ hom’ ploddin’, Tired and ro’sted from de sun. Tho’ I wo’k f’om mo’nin’ early, Seems m’ tas’ ez never don’; Th’n its wh’n I sit er scowlin’, Dinah smoothes m’ brow ’n’ sa’, Ephr’m yo’s bro’t nothin’ wit’ you’, Chil’ you’ can’t t’ke nothin’ wa’; An’ she re’ch’s me m’ banjo, An’ I lay it cross my bres’, Fo’ my trouble’s all forgotten An’ my soul’s at res’.

Soon de spring com’ on a smilin’ I ’gin frettin’ ’bout de grain, Fo’ my little gard’n parchin’ An’ my crop ez needin’ rain; Th’n its wh’n I sit a scowlin’, Dinah smoothes m’ brow ’n’ say’, Ephr’m you’s bro’t nothin’ wit’ you’, Chile, yo’ can’t t’ke not’in wa’; An’ she re’ch’s me m’ banjo, An’ I lay it cross m’ breast, Fo’ my trouble’s all forgotten, An’ my soul’s at rest.

Som’ des days ’t’ll all be over, I will la me down an’ sleep, Dinah, honey, don’t yo’ worry, Tell de people not to weep. Th’n its w’en I lay a sleepin’, Smooth my bro’ as ol’ an’ sa’, Ephr’m, honey, I will meet yo’, ’Round de throne o’ God som’ da’; T’ke my banjo f’om de ceilin’, La’ it sofly ’cross my bres’, Fo’ my troubles will be over, An’ my soul at rest.

INSPIRATION.

Of’en w’en de race I’m runnin’, Chil’ my feet gits blistered so’ Dat I hav’ a notion fallin’ ’Pears I jus’ can’ run no mo’; Th’n I ’gin to think o’ Lizah, Wit’ a smil’ upon her face Stan’in’ at de gate er waitin’, Jus’ to see me win de race, An’ I start out wit’ new courage, Fo’ to win de race or die. Well I feel jus’ like a feather, Man, I fairly fly.

Der are times w’en courage leav’ me, An’ I thro’ my burden down, Somethin’ sa’s ders no use tryin’, Seems I jus’ don’ wan’ no crown; Th’n I ’gin to think o’ Lizah, An’ I wondah wh’t she’d say, Ef she’d come along an’ fin’ me, In de gutter by de way. An’ I gather up my burden, An’ I start wit’ all my might, Fo’ my limbs at once grow stronger, An’ my load gits light.

Clouds may gath’r dark ez midnight, Matters not de cos’ o’ Fate, All I wan’ to kno’ ez Lizah, Waitin’ fo’ me at de gate; Tho’ns and thistles lose dey terro’, Hill an’ mountains melt er way; Tho’ de worl’ seem dark an’ drary, At de tho’t ’twill turn to day. Fo’ w’en I think o’ Anner Lizah, All de worl’ gits clear an’ bright. An’ my limbs dey grow much stronger, An’ my load gits light.

THE CENTURY’S PRAYER.

Lord God of Hosts incline thine ear, To this Thy humble servant’s prayer; May war and strife and discord cease, This Century, Lord God, give us peace. The thoughts of strife, the curse of war, Henceforth, dear Lord, may we abhor, One blessing more, our store increase, This is our prayer, Lord, give us peace.

May those who rule us, rule with love, As Thou dost rule the Courts above; May man to man as brothers feel, Lay down their arms and quit the field; Change from our brows the angry looks, Turn swords and spears to pruning hooks, One blessing more our store increase, This is our prayer, Lord, give us peace.

May flags of war fore’er be furled, The milk-white flag wave o’er the world; Let not a slave be heard to cry, “The lion and lamb together lie;” May nations meet in one accord, Around one peaceful festive board. One blessing more our store increase, This is our prayer, Lord, give us peace.

ANNA, WON’T YOU MARRY ME?