Sing.

Sosa, Lark, 2001

WITH the LARK

Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,

Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;

Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,—

Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong.

All the night through, though I moan in the dark,

I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,

Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.

But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,

I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;

And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,

I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,

Where the rain shall not grieve thro’ the leaves of the tree,

There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,

For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;

And though life has been hard and death’s pathway been dark,

I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Sly Dunbar, Rest in Peace

Sly Drumbar has passed.

With Robbie and Black Uhuru in '81 ...

Joyously.

Thomson, Nocturne, 1916

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 woodlands 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

Spirits.

Stretton, By the Hearth, 1894

A DROWSY DAY

The air is dark, the sky is gray,

The misty shadows come and go,

And here within my dusky room

Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom.

Outside the rain falls cold and slow —

Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray.

Each slightest sound is magnified,

For drowsy quiet holds her reign;

The burnt stick in the fireplace breaks,

The nodding cat with start awakes,

And then to sleep drops off again,

Unheeding Towser at her side.

I look far out across the lawn,

Where huddled stand the silly sheep;

My work lies idle at my hands,

My thoughts fly out like scattered strands

Of thread, and on the verge of sleep—

Still half awake — I dream and yawn.

What spirits rise before my eyes!

How various of kind and form!

Sweet memories of days long past,

The dreams of youth that could not last,

Each smiling calm, each raging storm,

That swept across my early skies.

Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs

Before my window sweep and sway,

And chafe in tortures of unrest.

My chin sinks down upon my breast;

I cannot work on such a day,

But only sit and dream and drowse.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Strive.

A THANKSGIVING POEM

The sun hath shed its kindly light,

   Our harvesting is gladly o’er

Our fields have felt no killing blight,

   Our bins are filled with goodly store.

From pestilence, fire, flood, and sword

   We have been spared by thy decree,

And now with humble hearts, O Lord,

   We come to pay our thanks to thee.

We feel that had our merits been

   The measure of thy gifts to us,

We erring children, born of sin,

   Might not now be rejoicing thus.

No deed of our hath brought us grace;

   When thou were nigh our sight was dull,

We hid in trembling from thy face,

   But thou, O God, wert merciful.

Thy mighty hand o’er all the land

   Hath still been open to bestow

Those blessings which our wants demand

   From heaven, whence all blessings flow.

Thou hast, with ever watchful eye,

   Looked down on us with holy care,

And from thy storehouse in the sky

   Hast scattered plenty everywhere.

Then lift we up our songs of praise

   To thee, O Father, good and kind;

To thee we consecrate our days;

   Be thine the temple of each mind.

With incense sweet our thanks ascend;

   Before thy works our powers pall;

Though we should strive years without end,

   We could not thank thee for them all.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Dreams.

FOREVER

I had not known before

Forever was so long a word.

The slow stroke of the clock of time

I had not heard.

‘Tis hard to learn so late;

It seems no sad heart really learns,

But hopes and trusts and doubts and fears,

And bleeds and burns.

The night is not all dark,

Nor is the day all it seems,

But each may bring me this relief—

My dreams and dreams.

I had not known before

That Never was so sad a word,

So wrap me in forgetfulness—

I have not heard.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Bursting.

MERRY AUTUMN

It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell
    About the breezes sighing,
And moans astir o’er field and dell,
    Because the year is dying.

Such principles are most absurd,—
    I care not who first taught ’em;
There’s nothing known to beast or bird
    To make a solemn autumn.

In solemn times, when grief holds sway
    With countenance distressing,
You’ll note the more of black and gray
    Will then be used in dressing.

Now purple tints are all around;
    The sky is blue and mellow;
And e’en the grasses turn the ground
    From modest green to yellow.

The seed burs all with laughter crack
    On featherweed and jimson;
And leaves that should be dressed in black
    Are all decked out in crimson.

A butterfly goes winging by;
    A singing bird comes after;
And Nature, all from earth to sky,
    Is bubbling o’er with laughter.

The ripples wimple on the rills,
    Like sparkling little lasses;
The sunlight runs along the hills,
    And laughs among the grasses.

The earth is just so full of fun
    It really can’t contain it;
And streams of mirth so freely run
    The heavens seem to rain it.

Don’t talk to me of solemn days
    In autumn’s time of splendor,
Because the sun shows fewer rays,
    And these grow slant and slender.

Why, it’s the climax of the year,—
    The highest time of living!—
Till naturally its bursting cheer
    Just melts into thanksgiving.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Beyond.

I 

Beyond the years the answer lies,

Beyond where brood the grieving skies   

And Night drops tears.

Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise   

And doff its fears,

And carping Sorrow pines and dies—   

Beyond the years. 

II 

Beyond the years the prayer for rest

Shall beat no more within the breast;  

The darkness clears,

And Morn perched on the mountain’s crest   

Her form uprears—

The day that is to come is best,

Beyond the years. 

III 

Beyond the years the soul shall find

That endless peace for which it pined,   

For light appears,

And to the eyes that still were blind   

With blood and tears,

Their sight shall come all unconfined   

Beyond the years.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Life.

Chardin, Young Student Drawing, 1738

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in. 

A minute to smile and an hour to weep in. 

A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, 

And never a laugh but the moans come double. 

And that is life.

A crust and a corner that makes love precious, 

With a smile to warm and tears to refresh us, 

And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, 

And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter. 

And that is life.

Paul Laurence Dunbar