The Book of American Negro Poetry eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 109 pages of information about The Book of American Negro Poetry.
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: 
  O 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.

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;
Forgotten is the special, startling season
  Of some beloved tree’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 I cannot bring back to mind just 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 bye 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 o’ 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.

TWO-AN’-SIX

Merry voices chatterin’,
Nimble feet dem patterin’,
Big an’ little, faces gay,
Happy day dis market day.

Sateday, de marnin’ break,
Soon, soon market-people wake;
An’ de light shine from de moon
While dem boy, wid pantaloon
Roll up ober dem knee-pan,
‘Tep across de buccra lan’
To de pastur whe’ de harse
Feed along wid de jackass,
An’ de mule cant’ in de track
Wid him tail up in him back,
All de ketchin’ to defy,
No ca’ how dem boy might try.

In de early marnin’-tide,
When de cocks crow on de hill
An’ de stars are shinin’ still,
Mirrie by de fireside
Hots de coffee for de lads
Comin’ ridin’ on de pads
T’rown across dem animul—­
Donkey, harse too, an’ de mule,
Which at last had come do’n cool. 
On de bit dem hol’ dem full: 
Racin’ ober pastur’ lan’,
See dem comin’ ebery man,
Comin’ fe de steamin’ tea
Ober hilly track an’ lea.

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The Book of American Negro Poetry from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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