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!

DISAPPOINTED

  An old man planted and dug and tended,
    Toiling in joy from dew to dew;
  The sun was kind, and the rain befriended;
    Fine grew his orchard and fair to view. 
  Then he said:  “I will quiet my thrifty fears,
  For here is fruit for my failing years.”

  But even then the storm-clouds gathered,
    Swallowing up the azure sky;
  The sweeping winds into white foam lathered
    The placid breast of the bay, hard by;
  Then the spirits that raged in the darkened air
  Swept o’er his orchard and left it bare.

  The old man stood in the rain, uncaring,
    Viewing the place the storm had swept;
  And then with a cry from his soul despairing,
    He bowed him down to the earth and wept. 
  But a voice cried aloud from the driving rain;
  “Arise, old man, and plant again!”

INVITATION TO LOVE

  Come when the nights are bright with stars
    Or when the moon is mellow;
  Come when the sun his golden bars
    Drops on the hay-field yellow. 
  Come in the twilight soft and gray,
  Come in the night or come in the day,
  Come, O love, whene’er you may,
    And you are welcome, welcome.

  You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,
  You are soft as the nesting dove. 
  Come to my heart and bring it rest
  As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.

  Come when my heart is full of grief
    Or when my heart is merry;
  Come with the falling of the leaf
    Or with the redd’ning cherry. 
  Come when the year’s first blossom blows,
  Come when the summer gleams and glows,
  Come with the winter’s drifting snows,
    And you are welcome, welcome.

HE HAD HIS DREAM

  He had his dream, and all through life,
  Worked up to it through toil and strife. 
  Afloat fore’er before his eyes,
  It colored for him all his skies: 
      The storm-cloud dark
      Above his bark,
  The calm and listless vault of blue
  Took on its hopeful hue,
  It tinctured every passing beam—­
      He had his dream.

  He labored hard and failed at last,
  His sails too weak to bear the blast,
  The raging tempests tore away
  And sent his beating bark astray. 
      But what cared he
      For wind or sea! 
  He said, “The tempest will be short,
  My bark will come to port.” 
  He saw through every cloud a gleam—­
      He had his dream.

GOOD-NIGHT