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diff --git a/old/64989-0.txt b/old/64989-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0a4a5f9..0000000 --- a/old/64989-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2556 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Harlem Shadows, by Claude McKay - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Harlem Shadows - The Poems of Claude McKay - -Author: Claude McKay - -Contributor: Max Eastman - -Release Date: April 04, 2021 [eBook #64989] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARLEM SHADOWS *** - - - - - HARLEM SHADOWS - - THE POEMS OF - - CLAUDE McKAY - - WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY - - MAX EASTMAN - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY - - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. - - - PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. BY - THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY - RAHWAY, N. J. - - -A number of these poems appeared in the _Seven Arts_, _Pearson’s_, _The - Liberator_, _The Messenger_, and _The Cambridge Magazine_ (England). - - - - -CONTENTS - - - INTRODUCTION _ix_ - AUTHOR’S WORD _xix_ - THE EASTER FLOWER _3_ - TO ONE COMING NORTH _4_ - AMERICA _6_ - ALFONSO, DRESSING TO WAIT AT TABLE _7_ - THE TROPICS IN NEW YORK _8_ - FLAME HEART _9_ - HOME THOUGHTS _11_ - ON BROADWAY _12_ - THE BARRIER _13_ - ADOLESCENCE _14_ - HOMING SWALLOWS _15_ - THE CITY’S LOVE _16_ - NORTH AND SOUTH _17_ - WILD MAY _18_ - THE PLATEAU _19_ - AFTER THE WINTER _20_ - THE WILD GOAT _21_ - HARLEM SHADOWS _22_ - THE WHITE CITY _23_ - THE SPANISH NEEDLE _24_ - MY MOTHER _26_ - IN BONDAGE _28_ - DECEMBER, 1919 _29_ - HERITAGE _30_ - WHEN I HAVE PASSED AWAY _31_ - ENSLAVED _32_ - I SHALL RETURN _33_ - MORNING JOY _34_ - AFRICA _35_ - ON A PRIMITIVE CANOE _36_ - WINTER IN THE COUNTRY _37_ - TO WINTER _39_ - SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE _40_ - ON THE ROAD _41_ - THE HARLEM DANCER _42_ - DAWN IN NEW YORK _43_ - THE TIRED WORKER _44_ - OUTCAST _45_ - I KNOW MY SOUL _46_ - BIRDS OF PREY _47_ - THE CASTAWAYS _48_ - EXHORTATION: SUMMER, 1919 _49_ - THE LYNCHING _51_ - BAPTISM _52_ - IF WE MUST DIE _53_ - SUBWAY WIND _54_ - THE NIGHT FIRE _55_ - POETRY _56_ - TO A POET _57_ - A PRAYER _58_ - WHEN DAWN COMES TO THE CITY _60_ - O WORD I LOVE TO SING _63_ - ABSENCE _64_ - SUMMER MORN IN NEW HAMPSHIRE _66_ - REST IN PEACE _67_ - A RED FLOWER _68_ - COURAGE _70_ - TO O. E. A. _71_ - ROMANCE _73_ - FLOWER OF LOVE _75_ - THE SNOW FAIRY _76_ - LA PALOMA IN LONDON _78_ - A MEMORY OF JUNE _79_ - FLIRTATION _81_ - TORMENTED _82_ - POLARITY _83_ - ONE YEAR AFTER _84_ - FRENCH LEAVE _86_ - JASMINES _88_ - COMMEMORATION _89_ - MEMORIAL _90_ - THIRST _92_ - FUTILITY _93_ - THROUGH AGONY _94_ - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -These poems have a special interest for all the races of man because -they are sung by a pure blooded Negro. They are the first significant -expression of that race in poetry. We tried faithfully to give a -position in our literature to Paul Laurence Dunbar. We have excessively -welcomed other black poets of minor talent, seeking in their music some -distinctive quality other than the fact that they wrote it. But here for -the first time we find our literature vividly enriched by a voice from -this most alien race among us. And it should be illuminating to observe -that while these poems are characteristic of that race as we most admire -it--they are gentle-simple, candid, brave and friendly, quick of -laughter and of tears--yet they are still more characteristic of what is -deep and universal in mankind. There is no special or exotic kind of -merit in them, no quality that demands a transmutation of our own -natures to perceive. Just as the sculptures and wood and ivory carvings -of the vast forgotten African Empires of Ifé and Benin, although so -wistful in their tranquillity, are tranquil in the possession of the -qualities of all classic and great art, so these poems, the purest of -them, move with a sovereignty that is never new to the lovers of the -high music of human utterance. - -It is the peculiarity of his experience, rather than of his nature, that -makes this poet’s race a fact to be remembered in the enjoyment of his -songs. The subject of all poetry is the experience of the poet, and no -man of any other race in the world can touch or imagine the experience -of the children of African slaves in America. - -Claude McKay was born in 1890 in a little thatched house of two rooms in -a beautiful valley of the hilly middle-country of Jamaica. He was born -to the genial, warm, patient, neighborly farmer’s life of that island. -It was a life rich in sun and sound and color and emotion, as we can see -in his poems which are forever homeward yearning--in the midst of their -present passion and strong will into the future, forever vividly -remembering. Like a blue-bird’s note in a March wind, those sudden clear -thoughts of the warm South ring out in the midst of his northern songs. -They carry a thrill into the depth of our hearts. Perhaps in some sense -they are thoughts of a mother. At least it seems inevitable that we -should find among them those two sacred sonnets of a child’s -bereavement. It seems inevitable that a wonderful poet should have had a -wise and beautiful mother. - -We can only distantly imagine how the happy tropic life of play and -affection, became shadowed and somber for this sensitive boy as he grew, -by a sense of the subjection of his people, and the memory of their -bondage to an alien race. Indeed the memory of Claude McKay’s family -goes back on his mother’s side beyond the days of bondage, to a time in -Madagascar when they were still free, and by the grace of God still -“savage.” He learned in early childhood the story of their violent -abduction, and how they were freighted over the seas in ships, and sold -at public auction in Jamaica. He learned another story, too, which must -have kindled a fire that slept in his blood--a story of the rebellion of -the members of his own family at the auction-block. A death-strike, we -should call it now--for they agreed that if they were divided and sold -away into different parts of the country they would all kill themselves. -And this fact solemnly announced in the market by the oldest -white-haired Negro among them, had such an effect upon prospective -buyers that it was impossible to sell them as individuals, and so they -were all taken away together to those hills at Clarendon which their -descendants still cultivate. With the blood of these rebels in his -veins, and their memory to stir it, we cannot wonder that Claude McKay’s -earliest boyish songs in the Jamaica dialect were full of heresy and the -militant love of freedom, and that his first poem of political -significance should have been a rally-call to the street-car men on -strike in Kingston. He found himself by an instinctive gravitation -singing in the forefront of the battle for human liberty. A wider -experience and a man’s comprehension of the science of history has only -strengthened his voice and his resolution. - -Those early songs and the music he composed for them, were very popular -in Jamaica. Claude McKay was quite the literary prince of the island for -a time--a kind of Robert Burns among his own people, as we can imagine, -with his physical beauty, his quick sympathy, and the magnetic wayward -humor of his ways. He received in 1912 the medal of the Institute of -Arts and Sciences in recognition of his preëminence. He was the first -Negro to receive this medal, and he was the first poet who ever made -songs in the quaint haunting dialect of the island. But nevertheless it -was not until he came to the United States that Claude McKay began to -confront the deepest feelings in his heart, and realize that a delicate -syllabic music could not alone express them. Here his imagination awoke, -and the colored imagery that is the language of all deep passion began -to appear in his poetry. Here too he conceived and felt the history and -position of his people with mature poetic force. He knew that his voice -belonged not only to his own moods and the general experience of -humanity, but to the hopes and sorrows of his race. - -A great many foolish things are said even by wise people upon the -subject of racial inferiority. They seem to think that if science could -establish a certain difference of average ability as between the whites -and blacks, that would justify them in placing the whole of one of -these races in a position of inferior esteem. The same fallacy is -committed in the discussions of sex-inferiority, and it is worth while -to make clear the perfect folly of it. If any defined quantitative -difference is ever established between the average abilities of such -groups, it will be a relatively slight one. The difficulty of -establishing it, is a proof of that. And a slight difference in the -general average would have no application whatever as between any two -individuals, or any minor groups of individuals. The enormous majority -of both races, as of both sexes, would show the same degree of ability. -And so great is the factor of individual variation that we could not -even be sure an example of the highest ability might not arise in the -group whose average was “inferior.” This simple consideration of fact -and good logic should suffice to silence those who think they can ever -appeal to science in support of a general race or sex prejudice. - -But in so far as the problem arises between a dominant and a subjected -race, it is impossible for science to say anything even as to averages. -For a fair general test is impossible. The children of the subjected -race never have a chance. To be deprived at the very dawn of selfhood of -a sense of possible superiority, is to be undernourished at the point of -chief educative importance. And to be assailed in early childhood with a -pervading intimation of inferiority is poison in the very centers of -growth. Except for people of the highest force of character, therefore, -to be born into a subjected race is to grow up inferior, not only to the -other race, but to one’s own potential self. We see an example of this -kind of growth in the bombastic locutions of the traditional “darkie” -who has acquired a little culture. Those great big words and long -sentences are the result of a feeling of inferiority. They are a -pathetic over-correction of the very quality of simple-heartedness which -is carried so high in these poems of Claude McKay. It is carried so -high, and made so boldly beautiful, that we can not withhold a tribute -to his will, as well as to his music and imagination. The naked force of -character that we feel in those two recent sonnets, “Baptism” and “The -White City,” is no mere verbal semblance. Its reality is certified by -the very achievement of such commanding art in the face of a -contemptuous or condescending civilization. - -Claude McKay came to the United States in 1912, having been offered an -education here by a friend in Jamaica who believed in his abilities. His -intention was to learn scientific farming, and return to the island to -offer practical wisdom as well as music to his people. He went at first -to one of our established philanthropic institutions for the training of -colored people. He stayed there a few months--long enough to weary of -the almost military system of discipline. And then he went to the -Agricultural College of Kansas, where he had learned that a free life -and a more elective system of education prevailed. He studied for two -years there, thinking continually less about farming and more about -literature, and gradually losing away altogether the idea of returning -to live in Jamaica. He left the college in 1914, knowing that he was a -poet--and imagining, I think, that he was a rather irresponsible and -wayward character--to cast in his lot with the working-class Negroes of -the north. Since then he has earned his living in every one of the ways -that the northern Negroes do, from “pot-wrestling” in a boarding-house -kitchen to dining-car service on the New York and Philadelphia Express. -But like all true poets, he failed to take the duty of “earning a -living” very seriously. It was a matter of collecting enough money from -each new job to quit for a while and live. And with each period of -living a new and a more sure and beautiful song would come out of him. - -The growth of beauty and sureness in these songs would be apparent if -they were arranged in the order of their creation. As it is, the reader -will observe occasional lapses of quality. One or two of the rhythms I -confess I am not able to apprehend at all. Perhaps they will be picked -up by receivers who are attuned to a different wave-length. But the -quality is here in them all--the pure, clear arrow-like transference of -his emotion into our breast, without any but the inevitable words--the -quality that reminds us of Burns and Villon and Catullus, and all the -poets that we call lyric because we love them so much. It is the quality -that Keats sought to cherish when he said that “Poetry should be great -and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into the soul, and does not -startle or amaze with itself but with its subject.” Poetry with this -quality is not for those whose interest is mainly in the manufacture of -poems. It will come rather to those whose interest is in the life of -things. It is the poetry of life, and not of the poet’s chamber. It is -the poetry that looks upon a thing, and sings. It is possessed by a -feeling and sings. May it find its way a little quietly and softly, in -this age of roar and advertising, to the hearts that love a true and -unaffected song. - - MAX EASTMAN. - - - - -AUTHOR’S WORD - - -In putting ideas and feelings into poetry, I have tried in each case to -use the medium most adaptable to the specific purpose. I own allegiance -to no master. I have never found it possible to accept in entirety any -one poet. But I have loved and joyed in what I consider the finest in -the poets of all ages. - -The speech of my childhood and early youth was the Jamaica Negro -dialect, the native variant of English, which still preserves a few -words of African origin, and which is more difficult of understanding -than the American Negro dialect. But the language we wrote and read in -school was England’s English. Our text books then, before the advent of -the American and Jamaican readers and our teachers, too, were all -English-made. The native teachers of the elementary schools were tutored -by men and women of British import. I quite remember making up verses in -the dialect and in English for our moonlight ring dances and for our -school parties. Of our purely native songs the jammas (field and road), -shay-shays (yard and booth), wakes (post-mortem), Anancy tales -(transplanted African folk lore), and revivals (religious) are all -singularly punctuated by meter and rhyme. And nearly all my own poetic -thought has always run naturally into these regular forms. - -Consequently, although very conscious of the new criticisms and trends -in poetry, to which I am keenly responsive and receptive, I have adhered -to such of the older traditions as I find adequate for my most lawless -and revolutionary passions and moods. I have not used patterns, images -and words that would stamp me a classicist nor a modernist. My intellect -is not scientific enough to range me on the side of either; nor is my -knowledge wide enough for me to specialize in any school. - -I have never studied poetics; but the forms I have used I am convinced -are the ones I can work in with the highest degree of spontaneity and -freedom. - -I have chosen my melodies and rhythms by instinct, and I have favored -words and figures which flow smoothly and harmoniously into my -compositions. And in all my moods I have striven to achieve directness, -truthfulness and naturalness of expression instead of an enameled -originality. I have not hesitated to use words which are old, and in -some circles considered poetically overworked and dead, when I thought I -could make them glow alive by new manipulation. Nor have I stinted my -senses of the pleasure of using the decorative metaphor where it is more -truly and vividly beautiful than the exact phrase. But for me there is -more quiet delight in “The golden moon of heaven” than in “The -terra-cotta disc of cloud-land.” - -Finally, while I have welcomed criticism, friendly and unfriendly, and -listened with willing attention to many varying opinions concerning -other poems and my own, I have always, in the summing up, fallen back on -my own ear and taste as the arbiter. - - CLAUDE MCKAY. - - - - - HARLEM SHADOWS - - - - - THE EASTER FLOWER - - - Far from this foreign Easter damp and chilly - My soul steals to a pear-shaped plot of ground, - Where gleamed the lilac-tinted Easter lily - Soft-scented in the air for yards around; - - Alone, without a hint of guardian leaf! - Just like a fragile bell of silver rime, - It burst the tomb for freedom sweet and brief - In the young pregnant year at Eastertime; - - And many thought it was a sacred sign, - And some called it the resurrection flower; - And I, a pagan, worshiped at its shrine, - Yielding my heart unto its perfumed power. - - - - - TO ONE COMING NORTH - - - At first you’ll joy to see the playful snow, - Like white moths trembling on the tropic air, - Or waters of the hills that softly flow - Gracefully falling down a shining stair. - - And when the fields and streets are covered white - And the wind-worried void is chilly, raw, - Or underneath a spell of heat and light - The cheerless frozen spots begin to thaw, - - Like me you’ll long for home, where birds’ glad song - Means flowering lanes and leas and spaces dry, - And tender thoughts and feelings fine and strong, - Beneath a vivid silver-flecked blue sky. - - But oh! more than the changeless southern isles, - When Spring has shed upon the earth her charm, - You’ll love the Northland wreathed in golden smiles - By the miraculous sun turned glad and warm. - - - - - AMERICA - - - Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, - And sinks into my throat her tiger’s tooth, - Stealing my breath of life, I will confess - I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! - Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, - Giving me strength erect against her hate. - Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. - Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state, - I stand within her walls with not a shred - Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. - Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, - And see her might and granite wonders there, - Beneath the touch of Time’s unerring hand, - Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand. - - - - - ALFONSO, DRESSING TO WAIT AT TABLE - - - Alfonso is a handsome bronze-hued lad - Of subtly-changing and surprising parts; - His moods are storms that frighten and make glad, - His eyes were made to capture women’s hearts. - - Down in the glory-hole Alfonso sings - An olden song of wine and clinking glasses - And riotous rakes; magnificently flings - Gay kisses to imaginary lasses. - - Alfonso’s voice of mellow music thrills - Our swaying forms and steals our hearts with joy; - And when he soars, his fine falsetto trills - Are rarest notes of gold without alloy. - - But, O Alfonso! wherefore do you sing - Dream-songs of carefree men and ancient places? - Soon we shall be beset by clamouring - Of hungry and importunate palefaces. - - - - - THE TROPICS IN NEW YORK - - - Bananas ripe and green, and ginger-root, - Cocoa in pods and alligator pears, - And tangerines and mangoes and grape fruit, - Fit for the highest prize at parish fairs, - - Set in the window, bringing memories - Of fruit-trees laden by low-singing rills, - And dewy dawns, and mystical blue skies - In benediction over nun-like hills. - - My eyes grew dim, and I could no more gaze; - A wave of longing through my body swept, - And, hungry for the old, familiar ways, - I turned aside and bowed my head and wept. - - - - - FLAME-HEART - - - So much have I forgotten in ten years, - So much in ten brief years! I have forgot - What time the purple apples come to juice, - And what month brings the shy forget-me-not. - I have forgot the special, startling season - Of the pimento’s flowering and fruiting; - What time of year the ground doves brown the fields - And fill the noonday with their curious fluting. - I have forgotten much, but still remember - The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. - - I still recall the honey-fever grass, - But cannot recollect the high days when - We rooted them out of the ping-wing path - To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen. - I often try to think in what sweet month - The languid painted ladies used to dapple - The yellow by-road mazing from the main, - Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple. - I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember - The poinsettia’s red, blood-red in warm December. - - What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year - We cheated school to have our fling at tops? - What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy - Feasting upon blackberries in the copse? - Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days, - Even the sacred moments when we played, - All innocent of passion, uncorrupt, - At noon and evening in the flame-heart’s shade. - We were so happy, happy, I remember, - Beneath the poinsettia’s red in warm December. - - - - - HOME THOUGHTS - - - Oh something just now must be happening there! - That suddenly and quiveringly here, - Amid the city’s noises, I must think - Of mangoes leaning o’er the river’s brink, - And dexterous Davie climbing high above, - The gold fruits ebon-speckled to remove, - And toss them quickly in the tangled mass - Of wis-wis twisted round the guinea grass; - And Cyril coming through the bramble-track - A prize bunch of bananas on his back; - And Georgie--none could ever dive like him-- - Throwing his scanty clothes off for a swim; - And schoolboys, from Bridge-tunnel going home, - Watching the waters downward dash and foam. - This is no daytime dream, there’s something in it, - Oh something’s happening there this very minute! - - - - - ON BROADWAY - - - About me young and careless feet - Linger along the garish street; - Above, a hundred shouting signs - Shed down their bright fantastic glow - Upon the merry crowd and lines - Of moving carriages below. - Oh wonderful is Broadway--only - My heart, my heart is lonely. - - Desire naked, linked with Passion, - Goes strutting by in brazen fashion; - From playhouse, cabaret and inn - The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze - All gay without, all glad within; - As in a dream I stand and gaze - At Broadway, shining Broadway--only - My heart, my heart is lonely. - - - - - THE BARRIER - - - I must not gaze at them although - Your eyes are dawning day; - I must not watch you as you go - Your sun-illumined way; - - I hear but I must never heed - The fascinating note, - Which, fluting like a river reed, - Comes from your trembling throat; - - I must not see upon your face - Love’s softly glowing spark; - For there’s the barrier of race, - You’re fair and I am dark. - - - - - ADOLESCENCE - - - There was a time when in late afternoon - The four-o’clocks would fold up at day’s close - Pink-white in prayer, and ’neath the floating moon - I lay with them in calm and sweet repose. - - And in the open spaces I could sleep, - Half-naked to the shining worlds above; - Peace came with sleep and sleep was long and deep, - Gained without effort, sweet like early love. - - But now no balm--nor drug nor weed nor wine-- - Can bring true rest to cool my body’s fever, - Nor sweeten in my mouth the acid brine, - That salts my choicest drink and will forever. - - - - - HOMING SWALLOWS - - - Swift swallows sailing from the Spanish main, - O rain-birds racing merrily away - From hill-tops parched with heat and sultry plain - Of wilting plants and fainting flowers, say-- - - When at the noon-hour from the chapel school - The children dash and scamper down the dale, - Scornful of teacher’s rod and binding rule - Forever broken and without avail, - - Do they still stop beneath the giant tree - To gather locusts in their childish greed, - And chuckle when they break the pods to see - The golden powder clustered round the seed? - - - - - THE CITY’S LOVE - - - For one brief golden moment rare like wine, - The gracious city swept across the line; - Oblivious of the color of my skin, - Forgetting that I was an alien guest, - She bent to me, my hostile heart to win, - Caught me in passion to her pillowy breast; - The great, proud city, seized with a strange love, - Bowed down for one flame hour my pride to prove. - - - - - NORTH AND SOUTH - - - O sweet are tropic lands for waking dreams! - There time and life move lazily along. - There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams - Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song, - Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day, - Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies, - And swarthy children in the fields at play, - Look upward laughing at the smiling skies. - A breath of idleness is in the air - That casts a subtle spell upon all things, - And love and mating-time are everywhere, - And wonder to life’s commonplaces clings. - The fluttering humming-bird darts through the trees - And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers, - The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze, - Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours, - The sea beats softly on the emerald strands-- - O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands! - - - - - WILD MAY - - - Aleta mentions in her tender letters, - Among a chain of quaint and touching things, - That you are feeble, weighted down with fetters, - And given to strange deeds and mutterings. - No longer without trace or thought of fear, - Do you leap to and ride the rebel roan; - But have become the victim of grim care, - With three brown beauties to support alone. - But none the less will you be in my mind, - Wild May that cantered by the risky ways, - With showy head-cloth flirting in the wind, - From market in the glad December days; - Wild May of whom even other girls could rave - Before sex tamed your spirit, made you slave. - - - - - THE PLATEAU - - - It was the silver, heart-enveloping view - Of the mysterious sea-line far away, - Seen only on a gleaming gold-white day, - That made it dear and beautiful to you. - - And Laura loved it for the little hill, - Where the quartz sparkled fire, barren and dun, - Whence in the shadow of the dying sun, - She contemplated Hallow’s wooden mill. - - While Danny liked the sheltering high grass, - In which he lay upon a clear dry night, - To hear and see, screened skilfully from sight, - The happy lovers of the valley pass. - - But oh! I loved it for the big round moon - That swung out of the clouds and swooned aloft, - Burning with passion, gloriously soft, - Lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June. - - - - - AFTER THE WINTER - - - Some day, when trees have shed their leaves - And against the morning’s white - The shivering birds beneath the eaves - Have sheltered for the night, - We’ll turn our faces southward, love, - Toward the summer isle - Where bamboos spire to shafted grove - And wide-mouthed orchids smile. - - And we will seek the quiet hill - Where towers the cotton tree, - And leaps the laughing crystal rill, - And works the droning bee. - And we will build a cottage there - Beside an open glade, - With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near, - And ferns that never fade. - - - - - THE WILD GOAT - - - O you would clothe me in silken frocks - And house me from the cold, - And bind with bright bands my glossy locks, - And buy me chains of gold; - - And give me--meekly to do my will-- - The hapless sons of men:-- - But the wild goat bounding on the barren hill - Droops in the grassy pen. - - - - - HARLEM SHADOWS - - - I hear the halting footsteps of a lass - In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall - Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass - To bend and barter at desire’s call. - Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet - Go prowling through the night from street to street! - - Through the long night until the silver break - Of day the little gray feet know no rest; - Through the lone night until the last snow-flake - Has dropped from heaven upon the earth’s white breast, - The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet - Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street. - - Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way - Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace, - Has pushed the timid little feet of clay, - The sacred brown feet of my fallen race! - Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet - In Harlem wandering from street to street. - - - - - THE WHITE CITY - - - I will not toy with it nor bend an inch. - Deep in the secret chambers of my heart - I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch - I bear it nobly as I live my part. - My being would be a skeleton, a shell, - If this dark Passion that fills my every mood, - And makes my heaven in the white world’s hell, - Did not forever feed me vital blood. - I see the mighty city through a mist-- - The strident trains that speed the goaded mass, - The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed, - The fortressed port through which the great ships pass, - The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate, - Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate. - - - - - THE SPANISH NEEDLE - - - Lovely dainty Spanish needle - With your yellow flower and white, - Dew bedecked and softly sleeping, - Do you think of me to-night? - - Shadowed by the spreading mango, - Nodding o’er the rippling stream, - Tell me, dear plant of my childhood, - Do you of the exile dream? - - Do you see me by the brook’s side - Catching crayfish ’neath the stone, - As you did the day you whispered: - Leave the harmless dears alone? - - Do you see me in the meadow - Coming from the woodland spring - With a bamboo on my shoulder - And a pail slung from a string? - - Do you see me all expectant - Lying in an orange grove, - While the swee-swees sing above me, - Waiting for my elf-eyed love? - - Lovely dainty Spanish needle, - Source to me of sweet delight, - In your far-off sunny southland - Do you dream of me to-night? - - - - - MY MOTHER - - - I - - Reg wished me to go with him to the field, - I paused because I did not want to go; - But in her quiet way she made me yield - Reluctantly, for she was breathing low. - Her hand she slowly lifted from her lap - And, smiling sadly in the old sweet way, - She pointed to the nail where hung my cap. - Her eyes said: I shall last another day. - But scarcely had we reached the distant place, - When o’er the hills we heard a faint bell ringing; - A boy came running up with frightened face; - We knew the fatal news that he was bringing. - I heard him listlessly, without a moan, - Although the only one I loved was gone. - - - II - - The dawn departs, the morning is begun, - The trades come whispering from off the seas, - The fields of corn are golden in the sun, - The dark-brown tassels fluttering in the breeze; - The bell is sounding and the children pass, - Frog-leaping, skipping, shouting, laughing shrill, - Down the red road, over the pasture-grass, - Up to the school-house crumbling on the hill. - The older folk are at their peaceful toil, - Some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn, - And others breaking up the sun-baked soil. - Float, faintly-scented breeze, at early morn - Over the earth where mortals sow and reap-- - Beneath its breast my mother lies asleep. - - - - - IN BONDAGE - - - I would be wandering in distant fields - Where man, and bird, and beast, lives leisurely, - And the old earth is kind, and ever yields - Her goodly gifts to all her children free; - Where life is fairer, lighter, less demanding, - And boys and girls have time and space for play - Before they come to years of understanding-- - Somewhere I would be singing, far away. - For life is greater than the thousand wars - Men wage for it in their insatiate lust, - And will remain like the eternal stars, - When all that shines to-day is drift and dust - But I am bound with you in your mean graves, - O black men, simple slaves of ruthless slaves. - - - - - DECEMBER, 1919 - - - Last night I heard your voice, mother, - The words you sang to me - When I, a little barefoot boy, - Knelt down against your knee. - - And tears gushed from my heart, mother, - And passed beyond its wall, - But though the fountain reached my throat - The drops refused to fall. - - ’Tis ten years since you died, mother, - Just ten dark years of pain, - And oh, I only wish that I - Could weep just once again. - - - - - HERITAGE - - - Now the dead past seems vividly alive, - And in this shining moment I can trace, - Down through the vista of the vanished years, - Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face. - - And suddenly some secret spring’s released, - And unawares a riddle is revealed, - And I can read like large, black-lettered print, - What seemed before a thing forever sealed. - - I know the magic word, the graceful thought, - The song that fills me in my lucid hours, - The spirit’s wine that thrills my body through, - And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours. - - I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise, - I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true; - But I can feel and I can write the word; - The best of me is but the least of you. - - - - - WHEN I HAVE PASSED AWAY - - - When I have passed away and am forgotten, - And no one living can recall my face, - When under alien sod my bones lie rotten - With not a tree or stone to mark the place; - - Perchance a pensive youth, with passion burning, - For olden verse that smacks of love and wine, - The musty pages of old volumes turning, - May light upon a little song of mine, - - And he may softly hum the tune and wonder - Who wrote the verses in the long ago; - Or he may sit him down awhile to ponder - Upon the simple words that touch him so. - - - - - ENSLAVED - - - Oh when I think of my long-suffering race, - For weary centuries despised, oppressed, - Enslaved and lynched, denied a human place - In the great life line of the Christian West; - And in the Black Land disinherited, - Robbed in the ancient country of its birth, - My heart grows sick with hate, becomes as lead, - For this my race that has no home on earth. - Then from the dark depths of my soul I cry - To the avenging angel to consume - The white man’s world of wonders utterly: - Let it be swallowed up in earth’s vast womb, - Or upward roll as sacrificial smoke - To liberate my people from its yoke! - - - - - I SHALL RETURN - - - I shall return again; I shall return - To laugh and love and watch with wonder-eyes - At golden noon the forest fires burn, - Wafting their blue-black smoke to sapphire skies. - I shall return to loiter by the streams - That bathe the brown blades of the bending grasses, - And realize once more my thousand dreams - Of waters rushing down the mountain passes. - I shall return to hear the fiddle and fife - Of village dances, dear delicious tunes - That stir the hidden depths of native life, - Stray melodies of dim remembered runes. - I shall return, I shall return again, - To ease my mind of long, long years of pain. - - - - - MORNING JOY - - - At night the wide and level stretch of wold, - Which at high noon had basked in quiet gold, - Far as the eye could see was ghostly white; - Dark was the night save for the snow’s weird light. - - I drew the shades far down, crept into bed; - Hearing the cold wind moaning overhead - Through the sad pines, my soul, catching its pain, - Went sorrowing with it across the plain. - - At dawn, behold! the pall of night was gone, - Save where a few shrubs melancholy, lone, - Detained a fragile shadow. Golden-lipped - The laughing grasses heaven’s sweet wine sipped. - - The sun rose smiling o’er the river’s breast, - And my soul, by his happy spirit blest, - Soared like a bird to greet him in the sky, - And drew out of his heart Eternity. - - - - - AFRICA - - - The sun sought thy dim bed and brought forth light, - The sciences were sucklings at thy breast; - When all the world was young in pregnant night - Thy slaves toiled at thy monumental best. - Thou ancient treasure-land, thou modern prize, - New peoples marvel at thy pyramids! - The years roll on, thy sphinx of riddle eyes - Watches the mad world with immobile lids. - The Hebrews humbled them at Pharaoh’s name. - Cradle of Power! Yet all things were in vain! - Honor and Glory, Arrogance and Fame! - They went. The darkness swallowed thee again. - Thou art the harlot, now thy time is done, - Of all the mighty nations of the sun. - - - - - ON A PRIMITIVE CANOE - - - Here, passing lonely down this quiet lane, - Before a mud-splashed window long I pause - To gaze and gaze, while through my active brain - Still thoughts are stirred to wakefulness; because - Long, long ago in a dim unknown land, - A massive forest-tree, ax-felled, adze-hewn, - Was deftly done by cunning mortal hand - Into a symbol of the tender moon. - Why does it thrill more than the handsome boat - That bore me o’er the wild Atlantic ways, - And fill me with rare sense of things remote - From this harsh life of fretful nights and days? - I cannot answer but, whate’er it be, - An old wine has intoxicated me. - - - - - WINTER IN THE COUNTRY - - - Sweet life! how lovely to be here - And feel the soft sea-laden breeze - Strike my flushed face, the spruce’s fair - Free limbs to see, the lesser trees’ - - Bare hands to touch, the sparrow’s cheep - To heed, and watch his nimble flight - Above the short brown grass asleep. - Love glorious in his friendly might, - - Music that every heart could bless, - And thoughts of life serene, divine, - Beyond my power to express, - Crowd round this lifted heart of mine! - - But oh! to leave this paradise - For the city’s dirty basement room, - Where, beauty hidden from the eyes, - A table, bed, bureau and broom - - In corner set, two crippled chairs - All covered up with dust and grim - With hideousness and scars of years, - And gaslight burning weird and dim, - - Will welcome me.... And yet, and yet - This very wind, the winter birds, - The glory of the soft sunset, - Come there to me in words. - - - - - TO WINTER - - - Stay, season of calm love and soulful snows! - There is a subtle sweetness in the sun, - The ripples on the stream’s breast gaily run, - The wind more boisterously by me blows, - And each succeeding day now longer grows. - The birds a gladder music have begun, - The squirrel, full of mischief and of fun, - From maples’ topmost branch the brown twig throws. - I read these pregnant signs, know what they mean: - I know that thou art making ready to go. - Oh stay! I fled a land where fields are green - Always, and palms wave gently to and fro, - And winds are balmy, blue brooks ever sheen, - To ease my heart of its impassioned woe. - - - - - SPRING IN NEW HAMPSHIRE - -(_To J. L. J. F. E._) - - - Too green the springing April grass, - Too blue the silver-speckled sky, - For me to linger here, alas, - While happy winds go laughing by, - Wasting the golden hours indoors, - Washing windows and scrubbing floors. - - Too wonderful the April night, - Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, - The stars too gloriously bright, - For me to spend the evening hours, - When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, - Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping. - - - - - ON THE ROAD - - - Roar of the rushing train fearfully rocking, - Impatient people jammed in line for food, - The rasping noise of cars together knocking, - And worried waiters, some in ugly mood, - Crowding into the choking pantry hole - To call out dishes for each angry glutton - Exasperated grown beyond control, - From waiting for his soup or fish or mutton. - At last the station’s reached, the engine stops; - For bags and wraps the red-caps circle round; - From off the step the passenger lightly hops, - And seeks his cab or tram-car homeward bound; - The waiters pass out weary, listless, glum, - To spend their tips on harlots, cards and rum. - - - - - THE HARLEM DANCER - - - Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes - And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway; - Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes - Blown by black players upon a picnic day. - She sang and danced on gracefully and calm, - The light gauze hanging loose about her form; - To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm - Grown lovelier for passing through a storm. - Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls - Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise, - The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls, - Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze; - But looking at her falsely-smiling face, - I knew her self was not in that strange place. - - - - - DAWN IN NEW YORK - - - The Dawn! The Dawn! The crimson-tinted, comes - Out of the low still skies, over the hills, - Manhattan’s roofs and spires and cheerless domes! - The Dawn! My spirit to its spirit thrills. - Almost the mighty city is asleep, - No pushing crowd, no tramping, tramping feet. - But here and there a few cars groaning creep - Along, above, and underneath the street, - Bearing their strangely-ghostly burdens by, - The women and the men of garish nights, - Their eyes wine-weakened and their clothes awry, - Grotesques beneath the strong electric lights. - The shadows wane. The Dawn comes to New York. - And I go darkly-rebel to my work. - - - - - THE TIRED WORKER - - - O whisper, O my soul! The afternoon - Is waning into evening, whisper soft! - Peace, O my rebel heart! for soon the moon - From out its misty veil will swing aloft! - Be patient, weary body, soon the night - Will wrap thee gently in her sable sheet, - And with a leaden sigh thou wilt invite - To rest thy tired hands and aching feet. - The wretched day was theirs, the night is mine; - Come tender sleep, and fold me to thy breast. - But what steals out the gray clouds red like wine? - O dawn! O dreaded dawn! O let me rest - Weary my veins, my brain, my life! Have pity! - No! Once again the harsh, the ugly city. - - - - - OUTCAST - - - For the dim regions whence my fathers came - My spirit, bondaged by the body, longs. - Words felt, but never heard, my lips would frame; - My soul would sing forgotten jungle songs. - I would go back to darkness and to peace, - But the great western world holds me in fee, - And I may never hope for full release - While to its alien gods I bend my knee. - Something in me is lost, forever lost, - Some vital thing has gone out of my heart, - And I must walk the way of life a ghost - Among the sons of earth, a thing apart; - For I was born, far from my native clime, - Under the white man’s menace, out of time. - - - - - I KNOW MY SOUL - - - I plucked my soul out of its secret place, - And held it to the mirror of my eye, - To see it like a star against the sky, - A twitching body quivering in space, - A spark of passion shining on my face. - And I explored it to determine why - This awful key to my infinity - Conspires to rob me of sweet joy and grace. - And if the sign may not be fully read, - If I can comprehend but not control, - I need not gloom my days with futile dread, - Because I see a part and not the whole. - Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted - By this narcotic thought: I know my soul. - - - - - BIRDS OF PREY - - - Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day, - As they go lumbering across the sky, - Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high, - Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray. - They scare the singing birds of earth away - As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly, - Watching the toilers with malignant eye, - From their exclusive haven--birds of prey. - They swoop down for the spoil in certain might, - And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws. - They beat us to surrender weak with fright, - And tugging and tearing without let or pause, - They flap their hideous wings in grim delight, - And stuff our gory hearts into their maws. - - - - - THE CASTAWAYS - - - The vivid grass with visible delight - Springing triumphant from the pregnant earth, - The butterflies, and sparrows in brief flight - Chirping and dancing for the season’s birth, - The dandelions and rare daffodils - That touch the deep-stirred heart with hands of gold, - The thrushes sending forth their joyous trills,-- - Not these, not these did I at first behold! - But seated on the benches daubed with green, - The castaways of life, a few asleep, - Some withered women desolate and mean, - And over all, life’s shadows dark and deep. - Moaning I turned away, for misery - I have the strength to bear but not to see. - - - - - EXHORTATION: SUMMER, 1919 - - - Through the pregnant universe rumbles life’s terrific thunder, - And Earth’s bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break, - Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder: - Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake! - - In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, - And its golden glory fills the western skies. - O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! - For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, - Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave’s disguise, - And the foolish, even children, are made wise; - For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- - O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries, - Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes! - - Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day’s for working; - Sons of the seductive night, for your children’s children’s sake, - From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard’s lurking, - Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake! - - In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking, - And its golden glory fills the western skies. - O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise! - For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking, - Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave’s disguise, - And the foolish, even children, are made wise; - For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making-- - O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries, - Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes! - - - - - THE LYNCHING - - - His Spirit in smoke ascended to high heaven. - His father, by the cruelest way of pain, - Had bidden him to his bosom once again; - The awful sin remained still unforgiven. - All night a bright and solitary star - (Perchance the one that ever guided him, - Yet gave him up at last to Fate’s wild whim) - Hung pitifully o’er the swinging char. - Day dawned, and soon the mixed crowds came to view - The ghastly body swaying in the sun - The women thronged to look, but never a one - Showed sorrow in her eyes of steely blue; - And little lads, lynchers that were to be, - Danced round the dreadful thing in fiendish glee. - - - - - BAPTISM - - - Into the furnace let me go alone; - Stay you without in terror of the heat. - I will go naked in--for thus ’tis sweet-- - Into the weird depths of the hottest zone. - I will not quiver in the frailest bone, - You will not note a flicker of defeat; - My heart shall tremble not its fate to meet, - My mouth give utterance to any moan. - The yawning oven spits forth fiery spears; - Red aspish tongues shout wordlessly my name. - Desire destroys, consumes my mortal fears, - Transforming me into a shape of flame. - I will come out, back to your world of tears, - A stronger soul within a finer frame. - - - - - IF WE MUST DIE - - - If we must die, let it not be like hogs - Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, - While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, - Making their mock at our accursèd lot. - If we must die, O let us nobly die, - So that our precious blood may not be shed - In vain; then even the monsters we defy - Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! - O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe! - Though far outnumbered let us show us brave, - And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! - What though before us lies the open grave? - Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, - Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back! - - - - - SUBWAY WIND - - - Far down, down through the city’s great, gaunt gut - The gray train rushing bears the weary wind; - In the packed cars the fans the crowd’s breath cut, - Leaving the sick and heavy air behind. - And pale-cheeked children seek the upper door - To give their summer jackets to the breeze; - Their laugh is swallowed in the deafening roar - Of captive wind that moans for fields and seas; - Seas cooling warm where native schooners drift - Through sleepy waters, while gulls wheel and sweep, - Waiting for windy waves the keels to lift - Lightly among the islands of the deep; - Islands of lofty palm trees blooming white - That lend their perfume to the tropic sea, - Where fields lie idle in the dew drenched night, - And the Trades float above them fresh and free. - - - - - THE NIGHT FIRE - - - No engines shrieking rescue storm the night, - And hose and hydrant cannot here avail; - The flames laugh high and fling their challenging light, - And clouds turn gray and black from silver-pale. - The fire leaps out and licks the ancient walls, - And the big building bends and twists and groans. - A bar drops from its place; a rafter falls - Burning the flowers. The wind in frenzy moans. - The watchers gaze, held wondering by the fire, - The dwellers cry their sorrow to the crowd, - The flames beyond themselves rise higher, higher, - To lose their glory in the frowning cloud, - Yielding at length the last reluctant breath. - And where life lay asleep broods darkly death. - - - - - POETRY - - - Sometimes I tremble like a storm-swept flower, - And seek to hide my tortured soul from thee. - Bowing my head in deep humility - Before the silent thunder of thy power. - Sometimes I flee before thy blazing light, - As from the specter of pursuing death; - Intimidated lest thy mighty breath, - Windways, will sweep me into utter night. - For oh, I fear they will be swallowed up-- - The loves which are to me of vital worth, - My passion and my pleasure in the earth-- - And lost forever in thy magic cup! - I fear, I fear my truly human heart - Will perish on the altar-stone of art! - - - - - TO A POET - - - There is a lovely noise about your name, - Above the shoutings of the city clear, - More than a moment’s merriment, whose claim - Will greater grow with every mellowed year. - - The people will not bear you down the street, - Dancing to the strong rhythm of your words, - The modern kings will throttle you to greet - The piping voice of artificial birds. - - But the rare lonely spirits, even mine, - Who love the immortal music of all days, - Will see the glory of your trailing line, - The bedded beauty of your haunting lays. - - - - - A PRAYER - - - ’Mid the discordant noises of the day I hear thee calling; - I stumble as I fare along Earth’s way; keep me from falling. - - Mine eyes are open but they cannot see for gloom of night; - I can no more than lift my heart to thee for inward light. - - The wild and fiery passion of my youth consumes my soul; - In agony I turn to thee for truth and self-control. - - For Passion and all the pleasures it can give will die the death; - But this of me eternally must live, thy borrowed breath. - - ’Mid the discordant noises of the day I hear thee calling; - I stumble as I fare along Earth’s way; keep me from falling. - - - - - WHEN DAWN COMES TO THE CITY - - - The tired cars go grumbling by, - The moaning, groaning cars, - And the old milk carts go rumbling by - Under the same dull stars. - Out of the tenements, cold as stone, - Dark figures start for work; - I watch them sadly shuffle on, - ’Tis dawn, dawn in New York. - - But I would be on the island of the sea, - In the heart of the island of the sea, - Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, - And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, - Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing - Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, - And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, - And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, - And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling - From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea - That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling - Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! - There, oh there! on the island of the sea, - There I would be at dawn. - - The tired cars go grumbling by, - The crazy, lazy cars, - And the same milk carts go rumbling by - Under the dying stars. - A lonely newsboy hurries by, - Humming a recent ditty; - Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky, - The dawn comes to the city. - - But I would be on the island of the sea, - In the heart of the island of the sea, - Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, - And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, - Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing - Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, - And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, - And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, - And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling - From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea - That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling - Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! - There, oh there! on the island of the sea, - There I would be at dawn. - - - - - O WORD I LOVE TO SING - - - O word I love to sing! thou art too tender - For all the passions agitating me; - For all my bitterness thou art too tender, - I cannot pour my red soul into thee. - - O haunting melody! thou art too slender, - Too fragile like a globe of crystal glass; - For all my stormy thoughts thou art too slender, - The burden from my bosom will not pass. - - O tender word! O melody so slender! - O tears of passion saturate with brine, - O words, unwilling words, ye can not render - My hatred for the foe of me and mine. - - - - - ABSENCE - - - Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool, - Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool. - - Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb, - Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim. - - Like soft rain-christened sunshine, as fragile as rare gold lace, - Your breath, sweet-scented and warm, has kindled my tranquil face. - - But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties - Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies. - - And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word, - To stir my fluent blood as never your presence stirred. - - - - - SUMMER MORN IN NEW HAMPSHIRE - - - All yesterday it poured, and all night long - I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat - Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, - Upon the grass like running children’s feet. - And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, - Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, - Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, - And nestled soft against the earth’s wet breast. - - But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! - The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, - The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, - The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. - And all things were transfigured in the day, - But me whom radiant beauty could not move; - For you, more wonderful, were far away, - And I was blind with hunger for your love. - - - - - REST IN PEACE - - - No more for you the city’s thorny ways, - The ugly corners of the Negro belt; - The miseries and pains of these harsh days - By you will never, never again be felt. - - No more, if still you wander, will you meet - With nights of unabating bitterness; - They cannot reach you in your safe retreat, - The city’s hate, the city’s prejudice! - - ’Twas sudden--but your menial task is done, - The dawn now breaks on you, the dark is over, - The sea is crossed, the longed-for port is won; - Farewell, oh, fare you well! my friend and lover. - - - - - A RED FLOWER - - - Your lips are like a southern lily red, - Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night, - In which the brown bee buries deep its head, - When still the dawn’s a silver sea of light. - - Your lips betray the secret of your soul, - The dark delicious essence that is you, - A mystery of life, the flaming goal - I seek through mazy pathways strange and new. - - Your lips are the red symbol of a dream. - What visions of warm lilies they impart, - That line the green bank of a fair blue stream, - With butterflies and bees close to each heart! - - Brown bees that murmur sounds of music rare, - That softly fall upon the languorous breeze, - Wafting them gently on the quiet air - Among untended avenues of trees. - - O were I hovering, a bee, to probe - Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower, - Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe, - Amorous of sweets, for but one perfect hour! - - - - - COURAGE - - - O lonely heart so timid of approach, - Like the shy tropic flower that shuts its lips - To the faint touch of tender finger tips: - What is your word? What question would you broach? - - Your lustrous-warm eyes are too sadly kind - To mask the meaning of your dreamy tale, - Your guarded life too exquisitely frail - Against the daggers of my warring mind. - - There is no part of the unyielding earth, - Even bare rocks where the eagles build their nest, - Will give us undisturbed and friendly rest. - No dewfall softens this vast belt of dearth. - - But in the socket-chiseled teeth of strife, - That gleam in serried files in all the lands, - We may join hungry, understanding hands, - And drink our share of ardent love and life. - - - - - TO O.E.A. - - - Your voice is the color of a robin’s breast, - And there’s a sweet sob in it like rain--still rain in the night. - Among the leaves of the trumpet-tree, close to his nest, - The pea-dove sings, and each note thrills me with strange delight - Like the words, wet with music, that well from your trembling throat. - I’m afraid of your eyes, they’re so bold, - Searching me through, reading my thoughts, shining like gold. - But sometimes they are gentle and soft like the dew on - the lips of the eucharis - Before the sun comes warm with his lover’s kiss. - You are sea-foam, pure with the star’s loveliness, - Not mortal, a flower, a fairy, too fair for the beauty-shorn earth. - All wonderful things, all beautiful things, gave of their - wealth to your birth. - Oh I love you so much, not recking of passion, that I feel it is wrong! - But men will love you, flower, fairy, non-mortal spirit - burdened with flesh, - Forever, life-long. - - - - - ROMANCE - - - To clasp you now and feel your head close-pressed, - Scented and warm against my beating breast; - - To whisper soft and quivering your name, - And drink the passion burning in your frame; - - To lie at full length, taut, with cheek to cheek, - And tease your mouth with kisses till you speak - - Love words, mad words, dream words, sweet senseless words, - Melodious like notes of mating birds; - - To hear you ask if I shall love always, - And myself answer: Till the end of days; - - To feel your easeful sigh of happiness - When on your trembling lips I murmur: Yes; - - It is so sweet. We know it is not true. - What matters it? The night must shed her dew. - - We know it is not true, but it is sweet-- - The poem with this music is complete. - - - - - FLOWER OF LOVE - - - The perfume of your body dulls my sense. - I want nor wine nor weed; your breath alone - Suffices. In this moment rare and tense - I worship at your breast. The flower is blown, - The saffron petals tempt my amorous mouth, - The yellow heart is radiant now with dew - Soft-scented, redolent of my loved South; - O flower of love! I give myself to you. - Uncovered on your couch of figured green, - Here let us linger indivisible. - The portals of your sanctuary unseen - Receive my offering, yielding unto me. - Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep! - The air is sweet, my flower, and sweet the flute - Whose music lulls our burning brain to sleep, - While we lie loving, passionate and mute. - - - - - THE SNOW FAIRY - - - I - - Throughout the afternoon I watched them there, - Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky, - Whirling fantastic in the misty air, - Contending fierce for space supremacy. - And they flew down a mightier force at night, - As though in heaven there was revolt and riot, - And they, frail things had taken panic flight - Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet. - I went to bed and rose at early dawn - To see them huddled together in a heap, - Each merged into the other upon the lawn, - Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep. - The sun shone brightly on them half the day, - By night they stealthily had stol’n away. - - - II - - And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you - Who came to me upon a winter’s night, - When snow-sprites round my attic window flew, - Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light. - My heart was like the weather when you came, - The wanton winds were blowing loud and long; - But you, with joy and passion all aflame, - You danced and sang a lilting summer song. - I made room for you in my little bed, - Took covers from the closet fresh and warm, - A downful pillow for your scented head, - And lay down with you resting in my arm. - You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day, - The lonely actor of a dreamy play. - - - - - LA PALOMA IN LONDON - - - About Soho we went before the light; - We went, unresting six, craving new fun, - New scenes, new raptures, for the fevered night - Of rollicking laughter, drink and song, was done. - The vault was void, but for the dawn’s great star - That shed upon our path its silver flame, - When La Paloma on a low guitar - Abruptly from a darkened casement came-- - Harlem! All else shut out, I saw the hall, - And you in your red shoulder sash come dancing - With Val against me languid by the wall, - Your burning coffee-colored eyes keen glancing - Aslant at mine, proud in your golden glory! - I loved you, Cuban girl, fond sweet Diory. - - - - - A MEMORY OF JUNE - - - When June comes dancing o’er the death of May, - With scarlet roses tinting her green breast, - And mating thrushes ushering in her day, - And Earth on tiptoe for her golden guest, - - I always see the evening when we met-- - The first of June baptized in tender rain-- - And walked home through the wide streets, gleaming wet, - Arms locked, our warm flesh pulsing with love’s pain. - - I always see the cheerful little room, - And in the corner, fresh and white, the bed, - Sweet scented with a delicate perfume, - Wherein for one night only we were wed; - - Where in the starlit stillness we lay mute, - And heard the whispering showers all night long, - And your brown burning body was a lute - Whereon my passion played his fevered song. - - When June comes dancing o’er the death of May, - With scarlet roses staining her fair feet, - My soul takes leave of me to sing all day - A love so fugitive and so complete. - - - - - FLIRTATION - - - Upon thy purple mat thy body bare - Is fine and limber like a tender tree. - The motion of thy supple form is rare, - Like a lithe panther lolling languidly, - Toying and turning slowly in her lair. - Oh, I would never ask for more of thee, - Thou art so clean in passion and so fair. - Enough! if thou wilt ask no more of me! - - - - - TORMENTED - - - I will not reason, wrestle here with you, - Though you pursue and worry me about; - As well put forth my swarthy arm to stop - The wild wind howling, darkly mad without. - - The night is yours for revels; day will light. - I will not fight you, bold and tigerish, - For I am weak, while you are gaining strength; - Peace! cease tormenting me to have your wish. - - But when you’re filled and sated with the flesh, - I shall go swiftly to the silver stream, - To cleanse my body for the spirit’s sake, - And sun my limbs, and close my eyes to dream. - - - - - POLARITY - - - Nay, why reproach each other, be unkind, - For there’s no plane on which we two may meet? - Let’s both forgive, forget, for both were blind, - And life is of a day, and time is fleet. - - And I am fire, swift to flame and burn, - Melting with elements high overhead, - While you are water in an earthly urn, - All pure, but heavy, and of hue like lead. - - - - - ONE YEAR AFTER - - - I - - Not once in all our days of poignant love, - Did I a single instant give to thee - My undivided being wholly free. - Not all thy potent passion could remove - The barrier that loomed between to prove - The full supreme surrendering of me. - Oh, I was beaten, helpless utterly - Against the shadow-fact with which I strove. - For when a cruel power forced me to face - The truth which poisoned our illicit wine, - That even I was faithless to my race - Bleeding beneath the iron hand of thine, - Our union seemed a monstrous thing and base! - I was an outcast from thy world and mine. - - - II - - Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted, - I shun all signs of anchorage, because - The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws. - New gales of tropic fury round my head - Break lashing me through hours of soulful dread; - But when the terror thins and, spent, withdraws, - Leaving me wondering awhile, I pause-- - But soon again the risky ways I tread! - No rigid road for me, no peace, no rest, - While molten elements run through my blood; - And beauty-burning bodies manifest - Their warm, heart-melting motions to be wooed; - And passion boldly rising in my breast, - Like rivers of the Spring, lets loose its flood. - - - - - FRENCH LEAVE - - - No servile little fear shall daunt my will - This morning. I have courage steeled to say - I will be lazy, conqueringly still, - I will not lose the hours in toil this day. - - The roaring world without, careless of souls, - Shall leave me to my placid dream of rest, - My four walls shield me from its shouting ghouls, - And all its hates have fled my quiet breast. - - And I will loll here resting, wide awake, - Dead to the world of work, the world of love, - I laze contented just for dreaming’s sake - With not the slightest urge to think or move. - - How tired unto death, how tired I was! - Now for a day I put my burdens by, - And like a child amidst the meadow grass - Under the southern sun, I languid lie - - And feel the bed about me kindly deep, - My strength ooze gently from my hollow bones, - My worried brain drift aimlessly to sleep, - Like softening to a song of tuneful tones. - - - - - JASMINES - - - Your scent is in the room. - Swiftly it overwhelms and conquers me! - Jasmines, night jasmines, perfect of perfume, - Heavy with dew before the dawn of day! - Your face was in the mirror. I could see - You smile and vanish suddenly away, - Leaving behind the vestige of a tear. - Sad suffering face, from parting grown so dear! - Night jasmines cannot bloom in this cold place; - Without the street is wet and weird with snow; - The cold nude trees are tossing to and fro; - Too stormy is the night for your fond face; - For your low voice too loud the wind’s mad roar. - But oh, your scent is here--jasmines that grow - Luxuriant, clustered round your cottage door! - - - - - COMMEMORATION - - - When first your glory shone upon my face - My body kindled to a mighty flame, - And burnt you yielding in my hot embrace - Until you swooned to love, breathing my name. - - And wonder came and filled our night of sleep, - Like a new comet crimsoning the sky; - And stillness like the stillness of the deep - Suspended lay as an unuttered sigh. - - I never again shall feel your warm heart flushed, - Panting with passion, naked unto mine, - Until the throbbing world around is hushed - To quiet worship at our scented shrine. - - Nor will your glory seek my swarthy face, - To kindle and to change my jaded frame - Into a miracle of godlike grace, - Transfigured, bathed in your immortal flame. - - - - - MEMORIAL - - - Your body was a sacred cell always, - A jewel that grew dull in garish light, - An opal which beneath my wondering gaze - Gleamed rarely, softly throbbing in the night. - - I touched your flesh with reverential hands, - For you were sweet and timid like a flower - That blossoms out of barren tropic sands, - Shedding its perfume in one golden hour. - - You yielded to my touch with gentle grace, - And though my passion was a mighty wave - That buried you beneath its strong embrace, - You were yet happy in the moment’s grave. - - Still more than passion consummate to me, - More than the nuptials immemorial sung, - Was the warm thrill that melted me to see - Your clean brown body, beautiful and young; - - The joy in your maturity at length, - The peace that filled my soul like cooling wine, - When you responded to my tender strength, - And pressed your heart exulting into mine. - - How shall I with such memories of you - In coarser forms of love fruition find? - No, I would rather like a ghost pursue - The fairy phantoms of my lonely mind. - - - - - THIRST - - - My spirit wails for water, water now! - My tongue is aching dry, my throat is hot - For water, fresh rain shaken from a bough, - Or dawn dews heavy in some leafy spot. - My hungry body’s burning for a swim - In sunlit water where the air is cool, - As in Trout Valley where upon a limb - The golden finch sings sweetly to the pool. - Oh water, water, when the night is done, - When day steals gray-white through the windowpane, - Clear silver water when I wake, alone, - All impotent of parts, of fevered brain; - Pure water from a forest fountain first, - To wash me, cleanse me, and to quench my thirst! - - - - - FUTILITY - - - Oh, I have tried to laugh the pain away, - Let new flames brush my love-springs like a feather. - But the old fever seizes me to-day, - As sickness grips a soul in wretched weather. - I have given up myself to every urge, - With not a care of precious powers spent, - Have bared my body to the strangest scourge, - To soothe and deaden my heart’s unhealing rent. - But you have torn a nerve out of my frame, - A gut that no physician can replace, - And reft my life of happiness and aim. - Oh what new purpose shall I now embrace? - What substance hold, what lovely form pursue, - When my thought burns through everything to you? - - - - - THROUGH AGONY - - - I - - All night, through the eternity of night, - Pain was my portion though I could not feel. - Deep in my humbled heart you ground your heel, - Till I was reft of even my inner light, - Till reason from my mind had taken flight, - And all my world went whirling in a reel. - And all my swarthy strength turned cold like steel, - A passive mass beneath your puny might. - Last night I gave you triumph over me, - So I should be myself as once before, - I marveled at your shallow mystery, - And haunted hungrily your temple door. - I gave you sum and substance to be free, - Oh, you shall never triumph any more! - - - II - - I do not fear to face the fact and say, - How darkly-dull my living hours have grown, - My wounded heart sinks heavier than stone, - Because I loved you longer than a day! - I do not shame to turn myself away - From beckoning flowers beautifully blown, - To mourn your vivid memory alone - In mountain fastnesses austerely gray. - The mists will shroud me on the utter height, - The salty, brimming waters of my breast - Will mingle with the fresh dews of the night - To bathe my spirit hankering to rest. - But after sleep I’ll wake with greater might, - Once more to venture on the eternal quest. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARLEM SHADOWS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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