The Mystery

I WAS not; now I am-a few days hence,

I shall not be; I fain would look before

And after, but can neither do; some Pow'r

Or lack of pow'r says "no" to all I would.

I stand upon a wide and sunless plain,

Nor chart nor steel to guide my steps aright.

Whene'er, o'ercoming fear, I dare to move,

I grope without direction and by chance.

Some feign to hear a voice and feel a hand

That draws them ever upward thro' the gloom.

But I-I hear no voice and touch no hand,

Tho' oft thro' silence infinite, I list,

And strain my hearing to supernal sounds;

Tho' oft thro' fateful darkness do I reach,

And stretch my hand to find that other hand.

I question of th' eternal bending skies

That seem to neighbor with the novice earth;

But they roll on and daily shut their eyes

On me, as I one day shall do on them,

And tell me not the secret that I ask.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

We Wear the Mask

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes-

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile

And mouth with myriad subtleties,

Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries

To Thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile,

But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes

ERE sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

Which all the day with ceaseless care have sought

The magic gold which from the seeker flies;

Ere dreams put on the gown and cap of thought,

And make the waking world a world of lies,-

Of lies most palpable, uncouth, forlorn,

That say life's full of aches and tears and sighs,-

Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

How all the griefs and heartaches we have known

Come up like pois'nous vapors that arise

From some base witch's caldron, when the crone,

To work some potent spell, her magic plies.

The past which held its share of bitter pain,

Whose ghost we prayed that Time might exorcise,

Comes up, is lived and suffered o'er again,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

What phantoms fill the dimly lighted room;

What ghostly shades in awe-creating guise

Are bodied forth within the teeming gloom.

What echoes faint of sad and soul-sick cries,

And pangs of vague inexplicable pain

That pay the spirit's ceaseless enterprise,

Come thronging through the chambers of the brain

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

Where ranges forth the spirit far and free?

Through what strange realms and unfamiliar skies.

Tends her far course to lands of mystery?

To lands unspeakable-beyond surmise,

Where shapes unknowable to being spring,

Till, faint of wing, the Fancy fails and dies

Much wearied with the spirit's journeying,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes,

How questioneth the soul that other soul,-

The inner sense which neither cheats nor lies,

But self exposes unto self, a scroll

Full writ with all life's acts unwise or wise,

In characters indelible and known;

So, trembling with the shock of sad surprise,

The soul doth view its awful self alone,

Ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes,

The last dear sleep whose soft embrace is balm,

And whom sad sorrow teaches us to prize

For kissing all our passions into calm,

Ah, then, no more we heed the sad world's cries,

Or seek to probe th' eternal mystery,

Or fret our souls at long-withheld replies,

At glooms through which our visions cannot see,

When sleep comes down to seal the weary eyes.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

October

OCTOBER is the treasurer of the year,

And all the months pay bounty to her store:

The fields and orchards still their tribute bear,

And fill her brimming coffers more and more.

But she, with youthful lavishness,

Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress,

And decks herself in garments bold

Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold.

She heedeth not how swift the hours fly,

But smiles and sings her happy life along;

She only sees above a shining sky;

She only hears the breezes' voice in song.

Her garments trail the woodland through,

And gather pearls of early dew

That sparkle till the roguish Sun

Creeps up and steals them every one.

But what cares she that jewels should be lost,

When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers?

Though princely fortunes may have been their cost,

Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs.

Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free,

She lives her life out joyously,

Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way

And turns her auburn locks to gray.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Common Things

I LIKE to hear of wealth and gold,

And El Doradoes in their glory;

I like for silks and satins bold

To sweep and rustle through a story.

The nightingale is sweet of song;

The rare exotic smells divinely;

And knightly men who stride along,

The role heroic carry finely.

But then, upon the other hand,

Our minds have got a way of running

To things that aren't quite so grand,

Which, maybe, we are best in shunning.

For some of us still like to see

The poor man in his dwelling narrow,

The hollyhock, the bumblebee,

The meadow lark, and chirping sparrow.

We like the man who soars and sings

With high and lofty inspiration;

But he who sings of common things

Shall always share our admiration.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Life's Tragedy

IT may be misery not to sing at all,

And to go silent through the brimming day;

It may be misery never to be loved,

But deeper griefs than these beset the way.

To sing the perfect song,

And by a half-tone lost the key,

There the potent sorrow, there the grief,

The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.

To have come near to the perfect love,

Not the hot passion of untempered youth,

But that which lies aside its vanity,

And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.

This, this indeed is to be accursed,

For if we mortals love, or if we sing,

We count our joys not by what we have,

But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Summer in the South

THE Oriole sings in the greening grove

   As if he were half-way waiting,

   The rosebuds peep from their hoods of green,

   Timid, and hesitating.

The rain comes down in a torrent sweep

And the nights smell warm and pinety,

The garden thrives, but the tender shoots

Are yellow-green and tiny.

Then a flash of sun on a waiting hill,

Streams laugh that erst were quiet,

The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue

And the woods run mad with riot.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Paradox

I AM the mother of sorrows,

I am the ender of grief;

I am the bud and the blossom,

I am the late-falling leaf.

I am thy priest and thy poet,

I am thy serf and thy king;

I cure the tears of the heartsick,

When I come near they shall sing.

White are my hands as the snowdrop;

Swart are my fingers as clay;

Dark is my frown as the midnight,

Fair is my brow as the day.

Battle and war are my minions,

Doing my will as divine;

I am the calmer of passions,

Peace is a nursling of mine.

Speak to me gently or curse me,

Seek me or fly from my sight;

I am thy fool in the morning,

Thou art my slave in the night.

Down to the grave I will take thee,

Out from the noise of the strife,

Then shalt thou see me and know me--

Death, then, no longer, but life.

Then shalt thou sing at my coming,

Kiss me with passionate breath,

Clasp me and smile to have thought me

Aught save the foeman of death.

Come to me, brother, when weary,

Come when thy lonely heart swells;

I'll guide thy footsteps and lead thee

Down where the Dream Woman dwells.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

If I Could But Forget

IF I could but forget

The fullness of those first sweet days,

When you burst sun-like thro' the haze

Of unacquaintance, on my sight,

And made the wet, gray day seem bright

While clouds themselves grew fair to see.

And since, no day is gray or wet

But all the scene comes back to me,

If I could but forget.

If I could but forget

How your dusk eyes look into mine,

And how I thrilled as with strong wine

Beneath your touch; while sped amain

The quickened stream thro' ev'ry vein;

How near my breath fell to a gasp,

When for a space our fingers met

In one electric vibrant clasp,

If I could but forget.

If I could but forget

The months of passion and of pain,

And all that followed in their train--

Rebellious thoughts that would arise,

Rebellious tears that dimmed mine eyes,

The prayers that I might set love's fire

Aflame within your bosom yet--

The death at last of that desire--

If I could but forget.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Old

I HAVE seen peoples come and go

Alike the Ocean'd ebb and flow;

I have seen kingdoms rise and fall

Like springtime shadows on a wall.

I have seen houses rendered great

That grew from life's debased estate,

And all, all, all is change I see,

So, dearest God, take me, take me.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Dilettante: A Modern Type

HE scribbles some in prose and verse,

And now and then he prints it;

He paints a little,--gathers some

Of Nature's gold and mints it.

He plays a little, sings a song,

Acts tragic roles or funny;

He does, because his love is strong,

But not, oh, not for money!

He studies almost everything

From social art to science;

A thirsty mind, a flowing spring,

Demand and swift compliance.

He looms above the sordid crowd,

At least through friendly lenses;

While his mama looks pleased and proud,

And kindly pays expenses.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Confirmation

HE was a poet who wrote clever verses,

And folks said he had a fine poetical taste;

But his father, a practical farmer, accused him

Of letting the strength of his arm go to waste.

He called on his sweetheart each Saturday evening,

As pretty a maiden as ever man faced,

And there he confirmed the old man's accusation

By letting the strength of his arm go to waist.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Come and Kiss Me Sweet and Twenty

APPLE blossoms falling o'er thee,

And the month is May,

Laden bows bend low before thee,

With their gentle sway;

Look you where the thrush is swinging

How his melody is ringing,

As he sings my heart is singing:--

     Come and kiss me sweet and twenty,

     Love blooms out with flowers a-plenty,

     Love me, love me without reason,

     Kiss me, now's the kissing season,

     White your cheek is as the blooms are,

     Sweet your breath as perfumes are,

     Is this dolce far niente,

     Come and kiss me sweet and twenty.

Love is at thy window suing,

All the live-long day,

Stay and listen to my wooing,

Life shall all be May.

Love like mine can falter never

Naught from thee my heart can sever

And my song shall be forever:--

     Come and kiss me sweet and twenty,

     Love blooms out with flowers a-plenty,

     Love me, love me without reason,

     Kiss me, now's the kissing season,

     White your cheek is as the blooms are,

     Sweet your breath as perfumes are,

     Is this dolce far niente,

     Come and kiss me sweet and twenty.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

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!

Paul Laurence Dunbar

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 could n't hide from 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 you' arm 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!

Paul Laurence Dunbar