The Project Gutenberg eBook of Color, by Countee Cullen 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: Color Author: Countee Cullen Release Date: April 14, 2023 [eBook #70543] Language: English Produced by: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, 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 COLOR *** _Color_ COLOR _By_ Countee Cullen [Illustration] Harper & Brothers, Publishers New York and London mcmxxv COLOR Copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America To my Mother and Father This First Book _Acknowledgments_ For permission to reprint certain of these poems thanks is hereby given to the following publications: _The American Mercury_ _The Bookman_ _The Century_ _The Crisis_ _The Conning Tower: New York World_ _Folio_ _Harper’s Magazine_ _Les Continents_ _The Messenger_ _The Nation_ _Opportunity_ _Palms_ _Poetry: A Magazine of Verse_ _The Southwestern Christian Advocate_ _The Survey Graphic_ _The World Tomorrow_ _Vanity Fair_ _Contents_ _TO YOU WHO READ MY BOOK_ xiii COLOR YET DO I MARVEL 3 A SONG OF PRAISE 4 BROWN BOY TO BROWN GIRL 5 A BROWN GIRL DEAD 6 TO A BROWN GIRL 7 TO A BROWN BOY 8 BLACK MAGDALENS 9 ATLANTIC CITY WAITER 10 NEAR WHITE 11 TABLEAU 12 HARLEM WINE 13 SIMON THE CYRENIAN SPEAKS 14 INCIDENT 15 TWO WHO CROSSED A LINE (SHE CROSSES) 16 TWO WHO CROSSED A LINE (HE CROSSES) 17 SATURDAY’S CHILD 18 THE DANCE OF LOVE 19 PAGAN PRAYER 20 WISDOM COMETH WITH THE YEARS 22 TO MY FAIRER BRETHREN 23 FRUIT OF THE FLOWER 24 THE SHROUD OF COLOR 26 HERITAGE 36 EPITAPHS FOR A POET 45 FOR MY GRANDMOTHER 46 FOR A CYNIC 47 FOR A SINGER 48 FOR A VIRGIN 49 FOR A LADY I KNOW 50 FOR A LOVELY LADY 51 FOR AN ATHEIST 52 FOR AN EVOLUTIONIST AND HIS OPPONENT 53 FOR AN ANARCHIST 54 FOR A MAGICIAN 55 FOR A PESSIMIST 56 FOR A MOUTHY WOMAN 57 FOR A PHILOSOPHER 58 FOR AN UNSUCCESSFUL SINNER 59 FOR A FOOL 60 FOR ONE WHO GAYLY SOWED HIS OATS 61 FOR A SKEPTIC 62 FOR A FATALIST 63 FOR DAUGHTERS OF MAGDALEN 64 FOR A WANTON 65 FOR A PREACHER 66 FOR ONE WHO DIED SINGING OF DEATH 67 FOR JOHN KEATS, APOSTLE OF BEAUTY 68 FOR HAZEL HALL, AMERICAN POET 69 FOR PAUL LAWRENCE DUNBAR 70 FOR JOSEPH CONRAD 71 FOR MYSELF 72 ALL THE DEAD 73 FOR LOVE’S SAKE OH, FOR A LITTLE WHILE BE KIND 77 IF YOU SHOULD GO 78 TO ONE WHO SAID ME NAY 79 ADVICE TO YOUTH 80 CAPRICE 81 SACRAMENT 82 BREAD AND WINE 83 SPRING REMINISCENCE 84 VARIA SUICIDE CHANT 87 SHE OF THE DANCING FEET SINGS 89 JUDAS ISCARIOT 90 THE WISE 95 MARY, MOTHER OF CHRIST 96 DIALOGUE 97 IN MEMORY OF COL. CHARLES YOUNG 99 TO MY FRIENDS 100 GODS 101 TO JOHN KEATS, POET. AT SPRINGTIME 102 ON GOING 105 HARSH WORLD THAT LASHEST ME 106 REQUIESCAM 108 _To You Who Read My Book_ Soon every sprinter, However fleet, Comes to a winter Of sure defeat: Though he may race Like the hunted doe, Time has a pace To lay him low. Soon we who sing, However high, Must face the Thing We cannot fly. Yea, though we fling Our notes to the sun, Time will outsing Us every one. All things must change As the wind is blown; Time will estrange The flesh from the bone. The dream shall elude The dreamer’s clasp, And only its hood Shall comfort his grasp. A little while, Too brief at most, And even my smile Will be a ghost. A little space, A Finger’s crook, And who shall trace The path I took? Who shall declare My whereabouts; Say if in the air My being shouts Along light ways, Or if in the sea, Or deep earth stays The germ of me? Ah, none knows, none, Save (but too well) The Cryptic One Who will not tell. This is my hour To wax and climb, Flaunt a red flower In the face of time. And only an hour Time gives, then snap Goes the flower, And dried is the sap. Juice of the first Grapes of my vine, I proffer your thirst My own heart’s wine. Here of my growing A red rose sways, Seed of my sowing, And work of my days. (I run, but time’s Abreast with me; I sing, but he climbs With my highest C.) Drink while my blood Colors the wine, Reach while the bud Is still on the vine.... Then ... When the hawks of death Tear at my throat Till song and breath Ebb note by note, Turn to this book Of the mellow word For a singing look At the stricken bird. Say, “This is the way He chirped and sung, In the sweet heyday When his heart was young. Though his throat is bare, By death defiled, Song labored there And bore a child.” When the dreadful Ax Rives me apart, When the sharp wedge cracks My arid heart, Turn to this book Of the singing me For a springtime look At the wintry tree. Say, “Thus it was weighed With flower and fruit, Ere the Ax was laid Unto its root. Though the blows fall free On a gnarled trunk now, Once he was a tree With a blossomy bough.” _Color_ _Yet Do I Marvel_ I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind, And did He stoop to quibble could tell why The little buried mole continues blind, Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die, Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus To struggle up a never-ending stair. Inscrutable His ways are, and immune To catechism by a mind too strewn With petty cares to slightly understand What awful brain compels His awful hand. Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing! _A Song of Praise_ (_For one who praised his lady’s being fair._) You have not heard my love’s dark throat, Slow-fluting like a reed, Release the perfect golden note She caged there for my need. Her walk is like the replica Of some barbaric dance Wherein the soul of Africa Is winged with arrogance. And yet so light she steps across The ways her sure feet pass, She does not dent the smoothest moss Or bend the thinnest grass. My love is dark as yours is fair, Yet lovelier I hold her Than listless maids with pallid hair, And blood that’s thin and colder. You-proud-and-to-be-pitied one, Gaze on her and despair; Then seal your lips until the sun Discovers one as fair. _Brown Boy to Brown Girl_ (_Remembrance on a hill_) (_For Yolande_) “As surely as I hold your hand in mine, As surely as your crinkled hair belies The enamoured sun pretending that he dies While still he loiters in its glossy shine, As surely as I break the slender line That spider linked us with, in no least wise Am I uncertain that these alien skies Do not our whole life measure and confine. No less, once in a land of scarlet suns And brooding winds, before the hurricane Bore down upon us, long before this pain, We found a place where quiet water runs; I held your hand this way upon a hill, And felt my heart forebear, my pulse grow still.” _A Brown Girl Dead_ With two white roses on her breasts, White candles at head and feet, Dark Madonna of the grave she rests; Lord Death has found her sweet. Her mother pawned her wedding ring To lay her out in white; She’d be so proud she’d dance and sing To see herself tonight. _To a Brown Girl_ (_For Roberta_) What if his glance is bold and free, His mouth the lash of whips? So should the eyes of lovers be, And so a lover’s lips. What if no puritanic strain Confines him to the nice? He will not pass this way again, Nor hunger for you twice. Since in the end consort together Magdalen and Mary, Youth is the time for careless weather: Later, lass, be wary. _To a Brown Boy_ That brown girl’s swagger gives a twitch To beauty like a queen; Lad, never dam your body’s itch When loveliness is seen. For there is ample room for bliss In pride in clean, brown limbs, And lips know better how to kiss Than how to raise white hymns. And when your body’s death gives birth To soil for spring to crown, Men will not ask if that rare earth Was white flesh once, or brown. _Black Magdalens_ These have no Christ to spit and stoop To write upon the sand, Inviting him that has not sinned To raise the first rude hand. And if he came they could not buy Rich ointment for his feet, The body’s sale scarce yields enough To let the body eat. The chaste clean ladies pass them by And draw their skirts aside, But Magdalens have a ready laugh; They wrap their wounds in pride. They fare full ill since Christ forsook The cross to mount a throne, And Virtue still is stooping down To cast the first hard stone. _Atlantic City Waiter_ With subtle poise he grips his tray Of delicate things to eat; Choice viands to their mouths half way, The ladies watch his feet Go carving dexterous avenues Through sly intricacies; Ten thousand years on jungle clues Alone shaped feet like these. For him to be humble who is proud Needs colder artifice; Though half his pride is disavowed, In vain the sacrifice. Sheer through his acquiescent mask Of bland gentility, The jungle flames like a copper cask Set where the sun strikes free. _Near White_ Ambiguous of race they stand, By one disowned, scorned of another, Not knowing where to stretch a hand, And cry, “My sister” or “My brother.” _Tableau_ _For Donald Duff_ Locked arm in arm they cross the way, The black boy and the white, The golden splendor of the day, The sable pride of night. From lowered blinds the dark folk stare, And here the fair folk talk, Indignant that these two should dare In unison to walk. Oblivious to look and word They pass, and see no wonder That lightning brilliant as a sword Should blaze the path of thunder. _Harlem Wine_ This is not water running here, These thick rebellious streams That hurtle flesh and bone past fear Down alleyways of dreams. This is a wine that must flow on Not caring how nor where, So it has ways to flow upon Where song is in the air. So it can woo an artful flute With loose, elastic lips, Its measurement of joy compute With blithe, ecstatic hips. _Simon the Cyrenian Speaks_ He never spoke a word to me, And yet He called my name; He never gave a sign to me, And yet I knew and came. At first I said, “I will not bear His cross upon my back; He only seeks to place it there Because my skin is black.” But He was dying for a dream, And He was very meek, And in His eyes there shone a gleam Men journey far to seek. It was Himself my pity bought; I did for Christ alone What all of Rome could not have wrought With bruise of lash or stone. _Incident_ (_For Eric Walrond_) Once riding in old Baltimore, Heart-filled, head-filled with glee, I saw a Baltimorean Keep looking straight at me. Now I was eight and very small, And he was no whit bigger, And so I smiled, but he poked out His tongue, and called me, “Nigger.” I saw the whole of Baltimore From May until December; Of all the things that happened there That’s all that I remember. _Two Who Crossed a Line_ (_She Crosses_) From where she stood the air she craved Smote with the smell of pine; It was too much to bear; she braved Her gods and crossed the line. And we were hurt to see her go, With her fair face and hair, And veins too thin and blue to show What mingled blood flowed there. We envied her a while, who still Pursued the hated track; Then we forgot her name, until One day her shade came back. Calm as a wave without a crest, Sorrow-proud and sorrow-wise, With trouble sucking at her breast, With tear-disdainful eyes, She slipped into her ancient place, And, no word asked, gave none; Only the silence in her face Said seats were dear in the sun. _Two Who Crossed a Line_ (_He Crosses_) He rode across like a cavalier, Spurs clicking hard and loud; And where he tarried dropped his tear On heads he left low-bowed. But, “Even Stephen,” he cried, and struck His steed an urgent blow; He swore by youth he was a buck With savage oats to sow. To even up some standing scores, From every flower bed He passed, he plucked by threes and fours Till wheels whirled in his head. But long before the drug could tell, He took his anodyne; With scornful grace, he bowed farewell And retraversed the line. _Saturday’s Child_ Some are teethed on a silver spoon, With the stars strung for a rattle; I cut my teeth as the black raccoon-- For implements of battle. Some are swaddled in silk and down, And heralded by a star; They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gown On a night that was black as tar. For some, godfather and goddame The opulent fairies be; Dame Poverty gave me my name, And Pain godfathered me. For I was born on Saturday-- “Bad time for planting a seed,” Was all my father had to say, And, “One mouth more to feed.” Death cut the strings that gave me life, And handed me to Sorrow, The only kind of middle wife My folks could beg or borrow. _The Dance of Love_ (_After reading René Maran’s “Batouala”_) All night we danced upon our windy hill, Your dress a cloud of tangled midnight hair, And love was much too much for me to wear My leaves; the killer roared above his kill, But you danced on, and when some star would spill Its red and white upon you whirling there, I sensed a hidden beauty in the air; Though you danced on, my heart and I stood still. But suddenly a bit of morning crept Along your trembling sides of ebony; I saw the tears your tired limbs had wept, And how your breasts heaved high, how languidly Your dark arms moved; I drew you close to me; We flung ourselves upon our hill and slept. _Pagan Prayer_ Not for myself I make this prayer, But for this race of mine That stretches forth from shadowed places Dark hands for bread and wine. For me, my heart is pagan mad, My feet are never still, But give them hearths to keep them warm In homes high on a hill. For me, my faith lies fallowing, I bow not till I see, But these are humble and believe; Bless their credulity. For me, I pay my debts in kind, And see no better way, Bless these who turn the other cheek For love of you, and pray. Our Father, God, our Brother, Christ-- So are we taught to pray; Their kinship seems a little thing Who sorrow all the day. Our Father, God; our Brother, Christ, Or are we bastard kin, That to our plaints your ears are closed, Your doors barred from within? Our Father, God; our Brother, Christ, Retrieve my race again; So shall you compass this black sheep, This pagan heart. Amen. _Wisdom Cometh With the Years_ Now I am young and credulous, My heart is quick to bleed At courage in the tremulous Slow sprouting of a seed. Now I am young and sensitive, Man’s lack can stab me through; I own no stitch I would not give To him that asked me to. Now I am young and a fool for love, My blood goes mad to see A brown girl pass me like a dove That flies melodiously. Let me be lavish of my tears, And dream that false is true; Though wisdom cometh with the years, The barren days come, too. _To My Fairer Brethren_ Though I score you with my best, Treble circumstance Must confirm the verdict, lest It be laid to chance. Insufficient that I match you Every coin you flip; Your demand is that I catch you Squarely on the hip. Should I wear my wreaths a bit Rakishly and proud, I have bought my right to it; Let it be allowed. _Fruit of the Flower_ My father is a quiet man With sober, steady ways; For simile, a folded fan; His nights are like his days. My mother’s life is puritan, No hint of cavalier, A pool so calm you’re sure it can Have little depth to fear. And yet my father’s eyes can boast How full his life has been; There haunts them yet the languid ghost Of some still sacred sin. And though my mother chants of God, And of the mystic river, I’ve seen a bit of checkered sod Set all her flesh aquiver. Why should he deem it pure mischance A son of his is fain To do a naked tribal dance Each time he hears the rain? Why should she think it devil’s art That all my songs should be Of love and lovers, broken heart, And wild sweet agony? Who plants a seed begets a bud, Extract of that same root; Why marvel at the hectic blood That flushes this wild fruit? _The Shroud of Color_ (_For Llewellyn Ransom_) “Lord, being dark,” I said, “I cannot bear The further touch of earth, the scented air; Lord, being dark, forewilled to that despair My color shrouds me in, I am as dirt Beneath my brother’s heel; there is a hurt In all the simple joys which to a child Are sweet; they are contaminate, defiled By truths of wrongs the childish vision fails To see; too great a cost this birth entails. I strangle in this yoke drawn tighter than The worth of bearing it, just to be man. I am not brave enough to pay the price In full; I lack the strength to sacrifice. I who have burned my hands upon a star, And climbed high hills at dawn to view the far Illimitable wonderments of earth, For whom all cups have dripped the wine of mirth, For whom the sea has strained her honeyed throat Till all the world was sea, and I a boat Unmoored, on what strange quest I willed to float; Who wore a many-colored coat of dreams, Thy gift, O Lord--I whom sun-dabbled streams Have washed, whose bare brown thighs have held the sun Incarcerate until his course was run, I who considered man a high-perfected Glass where loveliness could lie reflected, Now that I sway athwart Truth’s deep abyss, Denuding man for what he was and is, Shall breath and being so inveigle me That I can damn my dreams to hell, and be Content, each new-born day, anew to see The steaming crimson vintage of my youth Incarnadine the altar-slab of Truth? Or hast Thou, Lord, somewhere I cannot see, A lamb imprisoned in a bush for me? Not so? Then let me render one by one Thy gifts, while still they shine; some little sun Yet gilds these thighs; my coat, albeit worn, Still holds its colors fast; albeit torn, My heart will laugh a little yet, if I May win of Thee this grace, Lord: on this high And sacrificial hill ’twixt earth and sky, To dream still pure all that I loved, and die. There is no other way to keep secure My wild chimeras; grave-locked against the lure Of Truth, the small hard teeth of worms, yet less Envenomed than the mouth of Truth, will bless Them into dust and happy nothingness. Lord, Thou art God; and I, Lord, what am I But dust? With dust my place. Lord, let me die.” Across the earth’s warm, palpitating crust I flung my body in embrace; I thrust My mouth into the grass and sucked the dew, Then gave it back in tears my anguish drew; So hard I pressed against the ground, I felt The smallest sandgrain like a knife, and smelt The next year’s flowering; all this to speed My body’s dissolution, fain to feed The worms. And so I groaned, and spent my strength Until, all passion spent, I lay full length And quivered like a flayed and bleeding thing. So lay till lifted on a great black wing That had no mate nor flesh-apparent trunk To hamper it; with me all time had sunk Into oblivion; when I awoke The wing hung poised above two cliffs that broke The bowels of the earth in twain, and cleft The seas apart. Below, above, to left, To right, I saw what no man saw before: Earth, hell, and heaven; sinew, vein, and core. All things that swim or walk or creep or fly, All things that live and hunger, faint and die, Were made majestic then and magnified By sight so clearly purged and deified. The smallest bug that crawls was taller than A tree, the mustard seed loomed like a man. The earth that writhes eternally with pain Of birth, and woe of taking back her slain, Laid bare her teeming bosom to my sight, And all was struggle, gasping breath, and fight. A blind worm here dug tunnels to the light, And there a seed, racked with heroic pain, Thrust eager tentacles to sun and rain; It climbed; it died; the old love conquered me To weep the blossom it would never be. But here a bud won light; it burst and flowered Into a rose whose beauty challenged, “Coward!” There was no thing alive save only I That held life in contempt and longed to die. And still I writhed and moaned, “The curse, the curse, Than animated death, can death be worse?” “_Dark child of sorrow, mine no less, what art Of mine can make thee see and play thy part? The key to all strange things is in thy heart._” What voice was this that coursed like liquid fire Along my flesh, and turned my hair to wire? I raised my burning eyes, beheld a field All multitudinous with carnal yield, A grim ensanguined mead whereon I saw Evolve the ancient fundamental law Of tooth and talon, fist and nail and claw. There with the force of living, hostile hills Whose clash the hemmed-in vale with clamor fills, With greater din contended fierce majestic wills Of beast with beast, of man with man, in strife For love of what my heart despised, for life That unto me at dawn was now a prayer For night, at night a bloody heart-wrung tear For day again; for _this_, these groans From tangled flesh and interlockèd bones. And no thing died that did not give A testimony that it longed to live. Man, strange composite blend of brute and god, Pushed on, nor backward glanced where last he trod. He seemed to mount a misty ladder flung Pendant from a cloud, yet never gained a rung But at his feet another tugged and clung. My heart was still a pool of bitterness, Would yield nought else, nought else confess. I spoke (although no form was there To see, I knew an ear was there to hear), “Well, let them fight; they _can_ whose flesh is fair.” Crisp lightning flashed; a wave of thunder shook My wing; a pause, and then a speaking, “Look.” I scarce dared trust my ears or eyes for awe Of what they heard, and dread of what they saw; For, privileged beyond degree, this flesh Beheld God and His heaven in the mesh Of Lucifer’s revolt, saw Lucifer Glow like the sun, and like a dulcimer I heard his sin-sweet voice break on the yell Of God’s great warriors: Gabriel, Saint Clair and Michael, Israfel and Raphael. And strange it was to see God with His back Against a wall, to see Christ hew and hack Till Lucifer, pressed by the mighty pair, And losing inch by inch, clawed at the air With fevered wings; then, lost beyond repair, He tricked a mass of stars into his hair; He filled his hands with stars, crying as he fell, “A star’s a star although it burns in hell.” So God was left to His divinity, Omnipotent at that most costly fee. There was a lesson here, but still the clod In me was sycophant unto the rod, And cried, “Why mock me thus? Am I a god?” “_One trial more: this failing, then I give You leave to die; no further need to live._” Now suddenly a strange wild music smote A chord long impotent in me; a note Of jungles, primitive and subtle, throbbed Against my echoing breast, and tom-toms sobbed In every pulse-beat of my frame. The din A hollow log bound with a python’s skin Can make wrought every nerve to ecstasy, And I was wind and sky again, and sea, And all sweet things that flourish, being free. Till all at once the music changed its key. And now it was of bitterness and death, The cry the lash extorts, the broken breath Of liberty enchained; and yet there ran Through all a harmony of faith in man, A knowledge all would end as it began. All sights and sounds and aspects of my race Accompanied this melody, kept pace With it; with music all their hopes and hates Were charged, not to be downed by all the fates. And somehow it was borne upon my brain How being dark, and living through the pain Of it, is courage more than angels have. I knew What storms and tumults lashed the tree that grew This body that I was, this cringing I That feared to contemplate a changing sky, This that I grovelled, whining, “Let me die,” While others struggled in Life’s abattoir. The cries of all dark people near or far Were billowed over me, a mighty surge Of suffering in which my puny grief must merge And lose itself; I had no further claim to urge For death; in shame I raised my dust-grimed head, And though my lips moved not, God knew I said, “Lord, not for what I saw in flesh or bone Of fairer men; not raised on faith alone; Lord, I will live persuaded by mine own. I cannot play the recreant to these; My spirit has come home, that sailed the doubtful seas.” With the whiz of a sword that severs space, The wing dropped down at a dizzy pace, And flung me on my hill flat on my face; Flat on my face I lay defying pain, Glad of the blood in my smallest vein, And in my hands I clutched a loyal dream, Still spitting fire, bright twist and coil and gleam, And chiselled like a hound’s white tooth. “Oh, I will match you yet,” I cried, “to truth.” Right glad I was to stoop to what I once had spurned, Glad even unto tears; I laughed aloud; I turned Upon my back, and though the tears for joy would run, My sight was clear; I looked and saw the rising sun. _Heritage_ (_For Harold Jackman_) What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang? _One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?_ So I lie, who all day long Want no sound except the song Sung by wild barbaric birds Goading massive jungle herds, Juggernauts of flesh that pass Trampling tall defiant grass Where young forest lovers lie, Plighting troth beneath the sky. So I lie, who always hear, Though I cram against my ear Both my thumbs, and keep them there, Great drums throbbing through the air. So I lie, whose fount of pride, Dear distress, and joy allied, Is my somber flesh and skin, With the dark blood dammed within Like great pulsing tides of wine That, I fear, must burst the fine Channels of the chafing net Where they surge and foam and fret. Africa? A book one thumbs Listlessly, till slumber comes. Unremembered are her bats Circling through the night, her cats Crouching in the river reeds, Stalking gentle flesh that feeds By the river brink; no more Does the bugle-throated roar Cry that monarch claws have leapt From the scabbards where they slept. Silver snakes that once a year Doff the lovely coats you wear, Seek no covert in your fear Lest a mortal eye should see; What’s your nakedness to me? Here no leprous flowers rear Fierce corollas in the air; Here no bodies sleek and wet, Dripping mingled rain and sweat, Tread the savage measures of Jungle boys and girls in love. What is last year’s snow to me, Last year’s anything? The tree Budding yearly must forget How its past arose or set-- Bough and blossom, flower, fruit, Even what shy bird with mute Wonder at her travail there, Meekly labored in its hair. _One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me?_ So I lie, who find no peace Night or day, no slight release From the unremittant beat Made by cruel padded feet Walking through my body’s street. Up and down they go, and back, Treading out a jungle track. So I lie, who never quite Safely sleep from rain at night-- I can never rest at all When the rain begins to fall; Like a soul gone mad with pain I must match its weird refrain; Ever must I twist and squirm, Writhing like a baited worm, While its primal measures drip Through my body, crying, “Strip! Doff this new exuberance. Come and dance the Lover’s Dance!” In an old remembered way Rain works on me night and day. Quaint, outlandish heathen gods Black men fashion out of rods, Clay, and brittle bits of stone, In a likeness like their own, My conversion came high-priced; I belong to Jesus Christ, Preacher of humility; Heathen gods are naught to me. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, So I make an idle boast; Jesus of the twice-turned cheek, Lamb of God, although I speak With my mouth thus, in my heart Do I play a double part. Ever at Thy glowing altar Must my heart grow sick and falter, Wishing He I served were black, Thinking then it would not lack Precedent of pain to guide it, Let who would or might deride it; Surely then this flesh would know Yours had borne a kindred woe. Lord, I fashion dark gods, too, Daring even to give You Dark despairing features where, Crowned with dark rebellious hair, Patience wavers just so much as Mortal grief compels, while touches Quick and hot, of anger, rise To smitten cheek and weary eyes. Lord, forgive me if my need Sometimes shapes a human creed. _All day long and all night through, One thing only must I do: Quench my pride and cool my blood, Lest I perish in the flood. Lest a hidden ember set Timber that I thought was wet Burning like the dryest flax, Melting like the merest wax, Lest the grave restore its dead. Not yet has my heart or head In the least way realized They and I are civilized._ _Epitaphs_ _For a Poet_ I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold; Where long will cling the lips of the moth, I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth; I hide no hate; I am not even wroth Who found earth’s breath so keen and cold; I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold. _For My Grandmother_ This lovely flower fell to seed; Work gently, sun and rain; She held it as her dying creed That she would grow again. _For a Cynic_ Birth is a crime All men commit; Life gives them time To atone for it; Death ends the rhyme As the price for it. _For a Singer_ Death clogged this flute At its highest note; Song sleeps here mute In this breathless throat. _For a Virgin_ For forty years I shunned the lust Inherent in my clay; Death only was so amorous I let him have his way. _For a Lady I Know_ She even thinks that up in heaven Her class lies late and snores, While poor black cherubs rise at seven To do celestial chores. _For a Lovely Lady_ A creature slender as a reed, And sad-eyed as a doe Lies here (but take my word for it, And do not pry below). _For an Atheist_ Mountains cover me like rain, Billows whirl and rise; Hide me from the stabbing pain In His reproachful eyes. _For an Evolutionist and His Opponent_ Showing that our ways agreed, Death is proof enough; Body seeks the primal clay, Soul transcends the slough. _For an Anarchist_ What matters that I stormed and swore? Not Samson with an ass’s jaw, Not though a forest of hair he wore, Could break death’s adamantine law. _For a Magician_ I whose magic could explore Ways others might not guess or see, Now am barred behind a door That has no “Open Sesame.” _For a Pessimist_ He wore his coffin for a hat, Calamity his cape, While on his face a death’s-head sat And waved a bit of crape. _For a Mouthy Woman_ God and the devil still are wrangling Which should have her, which repel; God wants no discord in his heaven; Satan has enough in hell. _For a Philosopher_ Here lies one who tried to solve The riddle of being and breath: The wee blind mole that gnaws his bones Tells him the answer is death. _For an Unsuccessful Sinner_ I boasted my sins were sure to sink me Out of all sound and sight of glory; And the most I’ve won for all my pains Is a century of purgatory. _For a Fool_ On earth the wise man makes the rules, And is the fool’s adviser, But here the wise are as the fools, (And no man is the wiser). _For One Who Gayly Sowed His Oats_ My days were a thing for me to live, For others to deplore; I took of life all it could give: Rind, inner fruit, and core. _For a Skeptic_ Blood-brother unto Thomas whose Weak faith doubt kept in trammels, His little credence strained at gnats-- But grew robust on camels. _For a Fatalist_ Life ushers some as heirs-elect To weather wind and gale; Here lies a man whose ships were wrecked Ere he could hoist a sail. _For Daughters of Magdalen_ Ours is the ancient story: Delicate flowers of sin, Lilies, arrayed in glory, That would not toil nor spin. _For a Wanton_ To men no more than so much cover For them to doff or try, I found in Death a constant lover: Here in his arms I lie. _For a Preacher_ Vanity of vanities, All is vanity; yea, Even the rod He flayed you with Crumbled and turned to clay. _For One Who Died Singing of Death_ He whose might you sang so well Living, will not let you rust: Death has set the golden bell Pealing in the courts of dust. _For John Keats, Apostle of Beauty_ Not writ in water, nor in mist, Sweet lyric throat, thy name; Thy singing lips that cold death kissed Have seared his own with flame. _For Hazel Hall, American Poet_ Soul-troubled at the febrile ways of breath, Her timid breast shot through with faint alarm, “Yes, I’m a stranger here,” she said to Death, “It’s kind of you to let me take your arm.” _For Paul Laurence Dunbar_ Born of the sorrowful of heart, Mirth was a crown upon his head; Pride kept his twisted lips apart In jest, to hide a heart that bled. _For Joseph Conrad_ Not of the dust, but of the wave His final couch should be; They lie not easy in a grave Who once have known the sea. How shall earth’s meagre bed enthrall The hardiest seaman of them all? _For Myself_ What’s in this grave is worth your tear; There’s more than the eye can see; Folly and Pride and Love lie here Buried alive with me. _All the Dead_ Priest and layman, virgin, strumpet, Good and ill commingled sleep, Waiting till the dreadful trumpet Separates the wolves and sheep. _For Love’s Sake_ _Oh, for a Little While Be Kind_ (_For Ruth Marie_) Oh, for a little while be kind to me Who stand in such imperious need of you, And for a fitful space let my head lie Happily on your passion’s frigid breast. Although yourself no more resigned to me Than on all bitter yesterdays I knew, This half a loaf from sumptuous crumbs your shy Reneging hand lets fall shall make me blest. The sturdy homage of a love that throws Its strength about you, dawn and dusk, at bed And board, is not for scorn. When all is said With final amen certitude, who knows But Dives found a matchless fragrance fled When Lazarus no longer shocked his nose? _If You Should Go_ Love, leave me like the light, The gently passing day; We would not know, but for the night, When it has slipped away. Go quietly; a dream, When done, should leave no trace That it has lived, except a gleam Across the dreamer’s face. _To One Who Said Me Nay_ This much the gods vouchsafe today: That we two lie in the clover, Watching the heavens dip and sway, With galleons sailing over. This much is granted for an hour: That we are young and tender, That I am bee and you are flower, Honey-mouthed and swaying slender. This sweet of sweets is ours now: To wander through the land, Plucking an apple from its bough To toss from hand to hand. No thing is certain, joy nor sorrow, Except the hour we know it; Oh, wear my heart today; tomorrow Who knows where the winds will blow it? _Advice to Youth_ (_For Guillaume_) Since little time is granted here For pride in pain or play, Since blood soon cools before that Fear That makes our prowess clay, If lips to kiss are freely met, Lad, be not proud nor shy; There are no lips where men forget, And undesiring lie. _Caprice_ “I’ll tell him, when he comes,” she said, “Body and baggage, to go, Though the night be darker than my hair, And the ground be hard with snow.” But when he came with his gay black head Thrown back, and his lips apart, She flipped a light hair from his coat, And sobbed against his heart. _Sacrament_ She gave her body for my meat, Her soul to be my wine, And prayed that I be made complete In sunlight and starshine. With such abandoned grace she gave Of all that passion taught her, She never knew her tidal wave Cast bread on stagnant water. _Bread and Wine_ From death of star to new star’s birth, This ache of limb, this throb of head, This sweaty shop, this smell of earth, For this we pray, “Give daily bread.” Then tenuous with dreams the night, The feel of soft brown hands in mine, Strength from your lips for one more fight: Bread’s not so dry when dipped in wine. _Spring Reminiscence_ “My sweet,” you sang, and, “Sweet,” I sang, And sweet we sang together, Glad to be young as the world was young, Two colts too strong for a tether. Shall ever a spring be like that spring, Or apple blossoms as white; Or ever clover smell like the clover We lay upon that night? Shall ever your hand lie in my hand, Pulsing to it, I wonder; Or have the gods, being jealous gods, Envied us our thunder? _Varia_ _Suicide Chant_ I am the seed The Sower sowed; I am the deed His hand bestowed Upon the world. Censure me not If a rank weed flood The garden plot, Instead of a bud To be unfurled. Bridle your blame If the deed prove less Than the bruited fame With which it came From nothingness. The seed of a weed Cannot be flowered, Nor a hero’s deed Spring from a coward. Pull up the weed; Bring plow and mower; Then fetch new seed For the hand of the Sower. _She of the Dancing Feet Sings_ (_To Ottie Graham_) “And what would I do in heaven, pray, Me with my dancing feet, And limbs like apple boughs that sway When the gusty rain winds beat? And how would I thrive in a perfect place Where dancing would be sin, With not a man to love my face, Nor an arm to hold me in? The seraphs and the cherubim Would be too proud to bend To sing the faery tunes that brim My heart from end to end. The wistful angels down in hell Will smile to see my face, And understand, because they fell From that all-perfect place.” _Judas Iscariot_ I think when Judas’ mother heard His first faint cry the night That he was born, that worship stirred Her at the sound and sight. She thought his was as fair a frame As flesh and blood had worn; I think she made this lovely name For him--“Star of my morn.” As any mother’s son he grew From spring to crimson spring; I think his eyes were black, or blue, His hair curled like a ring. His mother’s heart-strings were a lute Whereon he all day played; She listened rapt, abandoned, mute, To every note he made. I think he knew the growing Christ, And played with Mary’s son, And where mere mortal craft sufficed, There Judas may have won. Perhaps he little cared or knew, So folly-wise is youth, That He whose hand his hand clung to Was flesh-embodied Truth; Until one day he heard young Christ, With far-off eyes agleam, Tell of a mystic, solemn tryst Between Him and a dream. And Judas listened, wonder-eyed, Until the Christ was through, Then said, “And I, though good betide, Or ill, will go with you.” And so he followed, heard Christ preach, Saw how by miracle The blind man saw, the dumb got speech, The leper found him well. And Judas in those holy hours Loved Christ, and loved Him much, And in his heart he sensed dead flowers Bloom at the Master’s touch. And when Christ felt the death hour creep With sullen, drunken lurch, He said to Peter, “Feed my sheep, And build my holy church.” He gave to each the special task That should be his to do, But reaching one, I hear him ask, “What shall I give to you?” Then Judas in his hot desire Said, “Give me what you will.” Christ spoke to him with words of fire, “Then, Judas, you must kill One whom you love, One who loves you As only God’s son can: This is the work for you to do To save the creature man.” “And men to come will curse your name, And hold you up to scorn; In all the world will be no shame Like yours; this is love’s thorn. It takes strong will of heart and soul, But man is under ban. Think, Judas, can you play this role In heaven’s mystic plan?” So Judas took the sorry part, Went out and spoke the word, And gave the kiss that broke his heart, But no one knew or heard. And no one knew what poison ate Into his palm that day, Where, bright and damned, the monstrous weight Of thirty white coins lay. It was not death that Judas found Upon a kindly tree; The man was dead long ere he bound His throat as final fee. And who can say if on that day When gates of pearl swung wide, Christ did not go His honored way With Judas by His side? I think somewhere a table round Owns Jesus as its head, And there the saintly twelve are found Who followed where He led. And Judas sits down with the rest, And none shrinks from His hand, For there the worst is as the best, And there they understand. And you may think of Judas, friend, As one who broke his word, Whose neck came to a bitter end For giving up his Lord. But I would rather think of him As the little Jewish lad Who gave young Christ heart, soul, and limb, And all the love he had. _The Wise_ (_For Alain Locke_) Dead men are wisest, for they know How far the roots of flowers go, How long a seed must rot to grow. Dead men alone bear frost and rain On throbless heart and heatless brain, And feel no stir of joy or pain. Dead men alone are satiate; They sleep and dream and have no weight, To curb their rest, of love or hate. Strange, men should flee their company, Or think me strange who long to be Wrapped in their cool immunity. _Mary, Mother of Christ_ That night she felt those searching hands Grip deep upon her breast, She laughed and sang a silly tune To lull her babe to rest; That night she kissed his coral lips How could she know the rest? _Dialogue_ Soul: There is no stronger thing than song; In sun and rain and leafy trees It wafts the timid soul along On crested waves of melodies. Body: But leaves the body bare to feed Its hunger with its very need. Soul: Although the frenzied belly writhes, Yet render up in song your tithes; Song is the weakling’s oaken rod, His Jacob’s ladder dropped from God. Body: Song is not drink; song is not meat, Nor strong, thick shoes for naked feet. Soul: Who sings by unseen hands is fed With honeyed milk and warm, white bread; His ways in pastures green are led, And perfumed oil illumes his head; His cup with wine is surfeited, And when the last low note is read, He sings among the lipless dead With singing stars to crown his head. Body: But will song buy a wooden box The length of me from toe to crown, To keep me safe from carrion flocks When singing’s done and lyre laid down? _In Memory of Col. Charles Young_ Along the shore the tall, thin grass That fringes that dark river, While sinuously soft feet pass, Begins to bleed and quiver. The great dark voice breaks with a sob Across the womb of night; Above your grave the tom-toms throb, And the hills are weird with light. The great dark heart is like a well Drained bitter by the sky, And all the honeyed lies they tell Come there to thirst and die. No lie is strong enough to kill The roots that work below; From your rich dust and slaughtered will A tree with tongues will grow. _To My Friends_ You feeble few that hold me somewhat more Than all I am; base clay and spittle joined To shape an aimless whim substantial; coined Amiss one idle hour, this heart, though poor,-- O golden host I count upon the ends Of one bare hand, with fingers still to spare,-- Is rich enough for this: to harbor there In opulence its frugal meed of friends. Let neither lose his faith, lest by such loss Each find insufferable his daily cross. And be not less immovable to me, Not less love-leal and staunch, than my heart is. In brief, these fine heroics come to this, My friends: if you are true, I needs must be. _Gods_ I fast and pray and go to church, And put my penny in, But God’s not fooled by such slight tricks, And I’m not saved from sin. I cannot hide from Him the gods That revel in my heart, Nor can I find an easy word To tell them to depart: God’s alabaster turrets gleam Too high for me to win, Unless He turns His face and lets Me bring my own gods in. _To John Keats, Poet. At Spring Time_[A] (_For Carl Van Vechten_) I cannot hold my peace, John Keats; There never was a spring like this; It is an echo, that repeats My last year’s song and next year’s bliss. I know, in spite of all men say Of Beauty, you have felt her most. Yea, even in your grave her way Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost, Spring never was so fair and dear As Beauty makes her seem this year. I cannot hold my peace, John Keats, I am as helpless in the toil Of Spring as any lamb that bleats To feel the solid earth recoil Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats Her tocsin call to those who love her, And lo! the dogwood petals cover Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek, While white and purple lilacs muster A strength that bears them to a cluster Of color and odor; for her sake All things that slept are now awake. And you and I, shall we lie still, John Keats, while Beauty summons us? Somehow I feel your sensitive will Is pulsing up some tremulous Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves Grow music as they grow, since your Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves For life that opens death’s dark door. Though dust, your fingers still can push The Vision Splendid to a birth, Though now they work as grass in the hush Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth. “John Keats is dead,” they say, but I Who hear your full insistent cry In bud and blossom, leaf and tree, Know John Keats still writes poetry. And while my head is earthward bowed To read new life sprung from your shroud, Folks seeing me must think it strange That merely spring should so derange My mind. They do not know that you, John Keats, keep revel with me, too. [A] Spring, 1924 _On Going_ (_For Willard Johnson_) A grave is all too weak a thing To hold my fancy long; I’ll bear a blossom with the spring, Or be a blackbird’s song, I think that I shall fade with ease, Melt into earth like snow, Be food for hungry, growing trees, Or help the lilies blow. And if my love should lonely walk, Quite of my nearness fain, I may come back to her, and talk In liquid words of rain. _Harsh World That Lashest Me_ (_For Walter White_) Harsh World that lashest me each day, Dub me not cowardly because I seem to find no sudden way To throttle you or clip your claws. No force compels me to the wound Whereof my body bears the scar; Although my feet are on the ground, Doubt not my eyes are on a star. You cannot keep me captive, World, Entrammeled, chained, spit on, and spurned. More free than all your flags unfurled, I give my body to be burned. I mount my cross because I will, I drink the hemlock which you give For wine which you withhold--and still, Because I will not die, I live. I live because an ember in Me smoulders to regain its fire, Because what is and what has been Not yet have conquered my desire. I live to prove the groping clod Is surely more than simple dust; I live to see the breath of God Beatify the carnal crust. But when I will, World, I can go, Though triple bronze should wall me round, Slip past your guard as swift as snow, Translated without pain or sound. Within myself is lodged the key To that vast room of couches laid For those too proud to live and see Their dreams of light eclipsed in shade. _Requiescam_ _I am for sleeping and forgetting All that has gone before; I am for lying still and letting Who will beat at my door; I would my life’s cold sun were setting To rise for me no more._ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. An incorrect page number in the Table of Contents has been corrected. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLOR *** 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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