Chapter III: Foreword: vii

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Ere Sleep Comes Down to Soothe the Weary Eyes 2
Death Song 4
Life 5
After the Quarrel 5
Ships that Pass in the Night 7
We Wear the Mask 8
Sympathy 8
The Debt 9

JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR.
The Tragedy of Pete 11
The Way-side Well 15

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON
From the German of Uhland 17
The Glory of the Day Was in Her Face 18
The Creation 19
The White Witch 22
My City 25

WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DU BOIS
A Litany of Atlanta 26

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE
Scintilla 31
Rye Bread 31
October XXIX, 1795 32
Del Cascar 33

JAMES EDWARD MCCALL
The New Negro 34

ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ
Hushed by the Hands of Sleep 36
Greenness 36
The Eyes of My Regret 37
Grass Fingers 38
Surrender 38
The Ways o’ Men 39
Tenebris 40
When the Green Lies Over the Earth 41
A Mona Lisa 42
Paradox 43
Your Hands 44
I Weep 45
For the Candle Light 45
Dusk 46
The Puppet Player 46
A Winter Twilight 46

ANNE SPENCER
Neighbors 47
I Have a Friend 47
Substitution 48
Questing 48
Life-long, Poor Browning 49
Dunbar 50
Innocence 51
Creed 51
Lines to a Nasturtium 52
At the Carnival 53

MARY EFFIE LEE NEWSOME
Morning Light 55
Pansy 56
Sassafras Tea 56
Sky Pictures 57
The Quilt 58
The Baker’s Boy 58
Wild Roses 59
Quoits 59

JOHN FREDERICK MATHEUS
Requiem 61

FENTON JOHNSON
When I Die 62
Puck Goes to Court 63
The Marathon Runner 64

JESSIE FAUSET
Words! Words! 65
Touché 66
Noblesse Oblige 67
La Vie C’est la Vie 69
The Return 70
Rencontre 70
Fragment 70

ALICE DUNBAR NELSON
Snow in October 71
Sonnet 72
I Sit and Sew 73

GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON
Service 75
Hope 75
The Suppliant 76
Little Son 76
Old Black Men 77
Lethe 77
Proving 77
I Want to Die While You Love Me 78
Recessional 79
My Little Dreams 79
What Need Have I for Memory? 80
When I Am Dead 80
The Dreams of the Dreamer 80
The Heart of a Woman 81

CLAUDE MCKAY
America 83
Exhortation: Summer, 1919 84
Flame-heart 85
The Wild Goat 87
Russian Cathedral 87
Desolate 88
Absence 91
My House 92

JEAN TOOMER
Reapers 94
Evening Song 94
Georgia Dusk 95
Song of the Son 96
Cotton Song 97
Face 98
November Cotton Flower 99

JOSEPH S. COTTER, JR.
Rain Music 100
Supplication 101
An April Day 102
The Deserter 102
And What Shall You Say? 103
The Band of Gideon 103

BLANCHE TAYLOR DICKINSON
The Walls of Jericho 106
Poem 107
Revelation 107
That Hill 109
To an Icicle 110
Four Walls 110

FRANK HORNE
On Seeing Two Brown Boys in a Catholic Church 112
To a Persistent Phantom 113
Letters Found Near a Suicide 114
Nigger 120

LEWIS ALEXANDER
Negro Woman 122
Africa 123
Transformation 124
The Dark Brother 124
Tanka I-VIII 125
Japanese Hokku 127
Day and Night 129

STERLING A. BROWN
Odyssey of Big Boy 130
Maumee Ruth 133
Long Gone 134
To a Certain Lady, in Her Garden 136
Salutamus 138
Challenge 138
Return 139

CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY
Joy 140
Solace 141
Interim 142
The Mask 143

LANGSTON HUGHES
I, Too 145
Prayer 146
Song for a Dark Girl 147
Homesick Blues 147
Fantasy in Purple 148
Dream Variation 149
The Negro Speaks of Rivers 149
Poem 150
Suicide’s Note 151
Mother to Son 151
A House in Taos 152

GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT
Quatrains 155
Secret 155
Advice 156
To a Dark Girl 157
Your Songs 157
Fantasy 158
Lines Written at the Grave of Alexander Dumas 159
Hatred 160
Sonnet--1 160
Sonnet--2 161

ARNA BONTEMPS
The Return 163
A Black Man Talks of Reaping 165
To a Young Girl Leaving the Hill Country 165
Nocturne at Bethesda 166
Length of Moon 168
Lancelot 169
Gethsemane 169
A Tree Design 170
Blight 170
The Day-breakers 171
Close Your Eyes! 171
God Give to Men 172
Homing 172
Golgotha Is a Mountain 173

ALBERT RICE
The Black Madonna 177

COUNTEE CULLEN
Lines to Our Elders 179
I Have a Rendezvous with Life 180
Protest 181
Yet Do I Marvel 182
To Lovers of Earth: Fair Warning 182
From the Dark Tower 183
To John Keats, Poet, at Springtime 184
Four Epitaphs 186
Incident 187

DONALD JEFFREY HAYES
Inscription 188
Auf Wiedersehen 189
Night 189
Confession 190
Nocturne 190
After All 191

JONATHAN HENDERSON BROOKS
The Resurrection 193
The Last Quarter Moon of the Dying Year 195
Paean 195

GLADYS MAY CASELY HAYFORD
Nativity 197
Rainy Season Love Song 198
The Serving Girl 200
Baby Cobina 200

LUCY ARIEL WILLIAMS
Northboun’ 201

GEORGE LEONARD ALLEN
To Melody 204
Portrait 204

RICHARD BRUCE
Shadow 206
Cavalier 207

WARING CUNEY
The Death Bed 208
A Triviality 209
I Think I See Him There 210
Dust 210
No Images 212
The Radical 212
True Love 213

EDWARD S. SILVERA
South Street 214
Jungle Taste 214

HELENE JOHNSON
What Do I Care for Morning 216
Sonnet to a Negro in Harlem 217
Summer Matures 217
Poem 218
Fulfillment 219
The Road 221
Bottled 221
Magalu 223

WESLEY CURTWRIGHT
The Close of Day 225

LULA LOWE WEEDEN
Me Alone 227
Have You Seen It 228
Robin Red Breast 228
The Stream 228
The Little Dandelion 229
Dance 229

INDEX 230

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Paul Laurence Dunbar. Born, Dayton, Ohio, June 27, 1872. Educated in public schools, and graduated from Dayton High School, where he achieved some distinction. Editor of school paper, and noted as a versifier, from his grammar-school days. Printed his first book, _Oak and Ivy_, in 1893.

Two friends of his early manhood helped most to shape his career, and to encourage him in his days of struggle--Dr. H. A. Tobey, the celebrated alienist of Toledo, Ohio, and Frederick Douglass. The former helped him to bring his second book, _Majors and Minors_, before the public; the latter, with whom he was associated in the Negro Building at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1893, was the hero of the poet’s dreams, the one to whom he dedicated two of his most serious poems.

Although Dunbar is remembered largely for his dialect verse, it was never his intention to concentrate on dialect. His poems in pure English constitute the greater bulk of his verse, and that to which he was most passionately devoted. The tragedy of his life was that the world “turned to praise the jingle in a broken tongue.” His friendship for Booker Washington and a visit to Tuskegee inspired him to write the Tuskegee School Song, which is sung to the tune of “Fair Harvard.”

The famous criticism of _Majors and Minors_ by William Dean Howells in _Harper’s Weekly_, June 27, 1897 established Dunbar’s prestige as an important figure in American literature. From that time his success was assured.

He was married to Alice Ruth Moore of New Orleans, a teacher in Brooklyn, N. Y., in March, 1898.

He was as indefatigable a writer of prose as of poetry; short stories, novels, criticism, essays and some short plays poured from his pen. His published works, exclusive of the two volumes of verse mentioned above, are: _Lyrics of Lowly Life_, _Lyrics of the Hearthside_, _Lyrics of Sunshine and Shadow_; several smaller volumes, illustrated editions of poems in the preceding volumes; short stories, _Folks from Dixie_, _The Strength of Gideon_; novels, _The Uncalled_, _The Fanatics_, _The Love of Landry_, _The Sport of the Gods_.

He died in Dayton, Ohio, February 9, 1906.

_Alice Dunbar Nelson._

ERE SLEEP COMES DOWN TO SOOTHE THE WEARY EYES[1]

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.

DEATH SONG[2]

Lay me down beneaf de willers in de grass, Whah de branch’ll go a-singin’ as it pass. An’ w’en I’s a-layin’ low, I kin hyeah it as it go Singin’, “Sleep, my honey, tek yo’ res’ at las’.”

Lay me nigh to whah hit meks a little pool, An’ de watah stan’s so quiet lak an’ cool, Whah de little birds in spring, Ust to come an’ drink an’ sing, An’ de chillen waded on dey way to school.

Let me settle w’en my shouldahs draps dey load Nigh enough to hyeah de noises in de road; Fu’ I t’ink de las’ long res’ Gwine to soothe my sperrit bes’ If I’s layin’ ’mong de t’ings I’s allus knowed.

LIFE[3]

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 love makes precious, With the smile to warm and the 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!

AFTER THE QUARREL[4]

So we, who’ve supped the self-same cup, To-night must lay our friendship by; Your wrath has burned your judgment up, Hot breath has blown the ashes high. You say that you are wronged--ah, well, I count that friendship poor, at best A bauble, a mere bagatelle, That cannot stand so slight a test.

I fain would still have been your friend, And talked and laughed and loved with you; But since it must, why, let it end; The false but dies, ’tis not the true. So we are favored, you and I, Who only want the living truth. It was not good to nurse the lie; ’Tis well it died in harmless youth.

I go from you to-night to sleep. Why, what’s the odds? why should I grieve? I have no fund of tears to weep For happenings that undeceive. The days shall come, the days shall go Just as they came and went before. The sun shall shine, the streams shall flow Though you and I are friends no more.

And in the volume of my years, Where all my thoughts and acts shall be, The page whereon your name appears Shall be forever sealed to me. Not that I hate you over-much, ’Tis less of hate than love defied; Howe’er, our hands no more shall touch, We’ll go our ways, the world is wide.

SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT[5]

Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing; I look far out into the pregnant night, Where I can hear a solemn booming gun And catch the gleaming of a random light, That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.

My tearful eyes my soul’s deep hurt are glassing; For I would hail and check that ship of ships. I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud, My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips, And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.

O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing, O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark! Is there no hope for me? Is there no way That I may sight and check that speeding bark Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?

WE WEAR THE MASK[6]

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, O 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!

SYMPATHY[7]

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!

THE DEBT[8]

This is the debt I pay Just for one riotous day, Years of regret and grief, Sorrow without relief.

Pay it I will to the end-- Until the grave, my friend, Gives me a true release-- Gives me the clasp of peace.

Slight was the thing I bought, Small was the debt I thought, Poor was the loan at best-- God! but the interest!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[2] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[3] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[4] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[5] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[6] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[7] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

[8] Copyright 1896 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

JOSEPH S. COTTER, SR.

“I was born in Nelson County, Ky., February 2nd, 1861, on a farm owned by my great grandfather, Daniel Stapp, a tanner. In 1829 he bought himself and a part of his master’s farm. Later he bought his daughter, Lucinda, my mother’s mother.

Martha, my mother, was born on a nearby farm owned by her English-Indian father, Fleming Vaughan. Prior to my birth she lived in Bardstown and was a servant at “My Old Kentucky Home.” She took me to Bardstown soon after my birth and brought me to Louisville in my fourth week, and here I have lived ever since.

I attended a private school and could read before my fourth year. Conditions were such that my attendance at school was very irregular. I quit school in my eighth year, having completed the third grade, and did not return until my twenty-second year.

During this time I picked up rags in the streets and worked in tobacco factories and brick-yards. My nineteenth year found me a distiller in one of the largest distilleries in Kentucky. A turn of fortune made me a teamster. I hauled cotton and tobacco and made up my mind to enter the prize ring. Another turn of fortune put me into a Louisville public night school. Here I began in the third grade where I left off in my eighth year.

At the end of two school sessions of five months each I was promoted to the high school. I keep this diploma under lock and key, for it is the only one I have ever received.

The man who turned my attention from prize-fighting to night school and then to school teaching, and who discovered my knack for writing verses, was Dr. W. T. Peyton of Louisville. He was my greatest benefactor.

My talent of whatever kind comes from Martha, my mother. She was poet, story-teller, dramatist and musician. My published works are: _A Rhyming_, _Links of Friendship_, _Caleb, the Degenerate_, a poetic drama, _A White Song And A Black One_ and _Negro Tales_. My unpublished works are: _Life’s Dawn And Dusk_, poems, _Caesar Driftwood and Other One Act Plays_ and _My Mother And Her Family_.”

THE TRAGEDY OF PETE

There was a man
Whose name was Pete,
And he was a buck
From his head to his feet.

He loved a dollar,
But hated a dime;
And so was poor
Nine-tenths of the time.

The Judge said “Pete,
What of your wife?”
And Pete replied
“She lost her life.”

“Pete,” said the Judge,
“Was it lost in a row?
Tell me quick,
And tell me how.”

Pete straightened up
With a hic and a sigh,
Then looked the Judge
Full in the eye.

“O, Judge, my wife
Would never go
To a Sunday dance
Or a movie show.

“But I went, Judge,
Both day and night,
And came home broke
And also tight.

“The moon was up,
My purse was down,
And I was the bully
Of the bootleg town.

“I was crooning a lilt
To corn and rye
For the loop in my legs
And the fight in my eye.

“I met my wife;
She was wearing a frown,
And catechising
Her Sunday gown.

‘O Pete, O Pete’
She cried aloud,
‘The Devil is falling
Right out of a cloud.’

“I looked straight up
And fell flat down
And a Ford machine
Pinned my head to the ground.

“The Ford moved on,
And my wife was in it;
And I was sober,
That very minute.

“For my head was bleeding,
My heart was a-flutter;
And the moonshine within me
Was tipping the gutter.

“The Ford, it faster
And faster sped
Till it dipped and swerved
And my wife was dead.

“Two bruised men lay
In a hospital ward--
One seeking vengeance,
The other the Lord.

“He said to me:
‘Your wife was drunk,
You are crazy,
And my Ford is junk.’

“I raised my knife
And drove it in
At the top of his head
And the point of his chin.

“O Judge, O Judge,
If the State has a chair,
Please bind me in it
And roast me there.”

There was a man
Whose name was Pete,
And he welcomed death
From his head to his feet.

THE WAY-SIDE WELL

A fancy halts my feet at the way-side well. It is not to drink, for they say the water is brackish. It is not to tryst, for a heart at the mile’s end beckons me on. It is not to rest, for what feet could be weary when a heart at the mile’s end keeps time with their tread? It is not to muse, for the heart at the mile’s end is food for my being. I will question the well for my secret by dropping a pebble into it. Ah, it is dry. Strike lightning to the road, my feet, for hearts are like wells. You may not know they are dry ’til you question their depths. Fancies clog the way to Heaven, and saints miss their crown.

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON

James Weldon Johnson was born in Jacksonville, Fla. He graduated from Atlanta University with the degree of A. B., and he received the degree of A. M. from the same University in 1904. He spent three years in graduate work at Columbia University in the City of New York. The honorary degree of Litt.D. was conferred upon him by Talladega College, Talladega, Ala., in 1917, and by Howard University in 1923.

For several years Mr. Johnson was principal of the colored high school at Jacksonville. He was admitted to the Florida bar in 1897, and practiced law in Jacksonville, until 1901, when he moved to New York to collaborate with his brother, J. Rosamond Johnson, in writing for the light opera stage.

In 1906, he was appointed United States Consul at Puerto Cabello, Venezuela, being transferred as Consul to Corinto, Nicaragua, in 1909. While in Corinto, he looked after the interests of his country during the stormy days of revolution which resulted in the downfall of Zelaya, and through the abortive revolution against Diaz.

His knowledge of Spanish has been put to use in the translation of a number of Spanish plays. He was the translator for the English libretto of _Goyescas_, the Spanish grand opera produced by the Metropolitan Opera Company in 1915.

Mr. Johnson was for ten years the Contributing Editor of the New York _Age_. He added to his distinction as a newspaper writer by winning in an editorial contest one of three prizes offered by the Philadelphia _Public Ledger_ in 1916. His poems have appeared in the _Century_, the _Independent_, the _Crisis_ and other publications.

In the spring of 1920, Mr. Johnson was sent by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People to the black republic of Haiti, where he made an investigation of U. S. misrule. The charges which Mr. Johnson published in _The Nation_, of New York, upon his return were taken up by Senator Harding, and as a consequence a Naval Board of Inquiry was sent to Haiti and a Congressional Investigation promised. The articles published in _The Nation_ have since been republished in a pamphlet entitled, “Self-Determining Haiti.”

Mr. Johnson is Secretary of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, a member of the Board of Directors of the American Fund for Public Service (The Garland Fund), and a trustee of Atlanta University.

Mr. Johnson’s works include:

_The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man_ _Fifty Years and Other Poems_ _English Libretto of “Goyescas”_ _The Book of American Negro Poetry_ _The Book of American Negro Spirituals_ _Second Book of Negro Spirituals_ _God’s Trombones (Seven Negro Sermons in Verse)_

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND

Three students once tarried over the Rhine, And into Frau Wirthin’s turned to dine.

“Say, hostess, have you good beer and wine? And where is that pretty daughter of thine?”

“My beer and wine is fresh and clear. My daughter lies on her funeral bier.”

They softly tipped into the room; She lay there in the silent gloom.

The first the white cloth gently raised, And tearfully upon her gazed.

“If thou wert alive, O, lovely maid, My heart at thy feet would to-day be laid!”

The second covered her face again. And turned away with grief and pain.

“Ah, thou upon thy snow-white bier! And I have loved thee so many a year.”

The third drew back again the veil, And kissed the lips so cold and pale.

“I’ve loved thee always, I love thee to-day, And will love thee, yes, forever and aye!”

THE GLORY OF THE DAY WAS IN HER FACE

The glory of the day was in her face, The beauty of the night was in her eyes. And over all her loveliness, the grace Of Morning blushing in the early skies.

And in her voice, the calling of the dove; Like music of a sweet, melodious part. And in her smile, the breaking light of love; And all the gentle virtues in her heart.

And now the glorious day, the beauteous night, The birds that signal to their mates at dawn, To my dull ears, to my tear-blinded sight Are one with all the dead, since she is gone.

THE CREATION

(A Negro Sermon)

And God stepped out on space, And he looked around and said, “_I’m lonely-- I’ll make me a world_.”

And far as the eye of God could see Darkness covered everything, Blacker than a hundred midnights Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled, And the light broke, And the darkness rolled up on one side, And the light stood shining on the other, And God said, “_That’s good!_”

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands, And God rolled the light around in His hands Until He made the sun; And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens. And the light that was left from making the sun God gathered it up in a shining ball And flung it against the darkness, Spangling the night with the moon and stars. Then down between The darkness and the light He hurled the world; And God said, “_That’s good!_”

Then God himself stepped down-- And the sun was on His right hand, And the moon was on His left; The stars were clustered about His head, And the earth was under His feet. And God walked, and where He trod His footsteps hollowed the valleys out And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked and saw That the earth was hot and barren. So God stepped over to the edge of the world And He spat out the seven seas; He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed; He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled; And the waters above the earth came down, The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted, And the little red flowers blossomed, The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky, And the oak spread out his arms, The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground, And the rivers ran down to the sea; And God smiled again, And the rainbow appeared, And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand Over the sea and over the land, And He said, “_Bring forth! Bring forth!_” And quicker than God could drop His hand, Fishes and fowls And beasts and birds Swam the rivers and the seas, Roamed the forests and the woods, And split the air with their wings. And God said, “_That’s good!_”

Then God walked around, And God looked around On all that He had made. He looked at His sun, And He looked at His moon, And He looked at His little stars; He looked on His world With all its living things, And God said, “_I’m lonely still._”

Then God sat down On the side of a hill where He could think; By a deep, wide river He sat down; With His head in His hands, God thought and thought, Till He thought, “_I’ll make me a man!_”

Up from the bed of the river God scooped the clay; And by the bank of the river He kneeled Him down; And there the great God Almighty Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand; This Great God, Like a mammy bending over her baby, Kneeled down in the dust Toiling over a lump of clay Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life, And man became a living soul. Amen. Amen.

THE WHITE WITCH

O brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. Trust not your prowess nor your strength, Your only safety lies in flight; For in her glance is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

The great white witch you have not seen? Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth, Like nursery children you have looked For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth; But no, not so; the witch appears In all the glowing charms of youth.

Her lips are like carnations, red, Her face like new-born lilies, fair, Her eyes like ocean waters, blue, She moves with subtle grace and air, And all about her head there floats The golden glory of her hair.

But though she always thus appears In form of youth and mood of mirth, Unnumbered centuries are hers, The infant planets saw her birth; The child of throbbing Life is she, Twin sister to the greedy earth.

And back behind those smiling lips, And down within those laughing eyes, And underneath the soft caress Of hand and voice and purring sighs, The shadow of the panther lurks, The spirit of the vampire lies.

For I have seen the great white witch, And she has led me to her lair, And I have kissed her red, red lips And cruel face so white and fair; Around me she has twined her arms, And bound me with her yellow hair.

I felt those red lips burn and sear My body like a living coal; Obeyed the power of those eyes As the needle trembles to the pole; And did not care although I felt The strength go ebbing from my soul.

Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs, And heard your laughter loud and gay, And in your voices she has caught The echo of a far-off day, When man was closer to the earth; And she has marked you for her prey.

She feels the old Antaean strength In you, the great dynamic beat Of primal passions, and she sees In you the last besieged retreat Of love relentless, lusty, fierce, Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.

O, brothers mine, take care! Take care! The great white witch rides out to-night. O, younger brothers mine, beware; Look not upon her beauty bright; For in her glance there is a snare, And in her smile there is a blight.

MY CITY

When I come down to sleep death’s endless night, The threshold of the unknown dark to cross, What to me then will be the keenest loss, When this bright world blurs on my fading sight? Will it be that no more I shall see the trees Or smell the flowers or hear the singing birds Or watch the flashing streams or patient herds? No, I am sure it will be none of these.

But, ah! Manhattan’s sights and sounds, her smells, Her crowds, her throbbing force, the thrill that comes From being of her a part, her subtile spells, Her shining towers, her avenues, her slums-- O God! the stark, unutterable pity, To be dead, and never again behold my city!

WILLIAM EDWARD BURGHARDT DU BOIS

I was born in Massachusetts and educated in her schools, at Fisk University, at Harvard and Berlin. My first published writings were news notes in _The New York Age_. Then I had an article in _The Atlantic Monthly_, and in 1896 my doctor’s thesis on the slave trade was published as my first book. _The Souls of Black Folk_ appeared in 1903 and one or two other books thereafter. I taught at Wilberforce, Pennsylvania and Atlanta and became editor of _The Crisis_ in 1910.

A LITANY OF ATLANTA[9]

Done at Atlanta, in the Day of Death, 1906.

O Silent God, Thou whose voice afar in mist and mystery hath left our ears an-hungered in these fearful days--

_Hear us, good Lord!_

Listen to us, Thy children: our faces dark with doubt are made a mockery in Thy sanctuary. With uplifted hands we front Thy heaven, O God crying:

_We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_

We are not better than our fellows, Lord, we are but weak and human men. When our devils do deviltry, curse Thou the doer and the deed: curse them as we curse them, do to them all and more than ever they have done to innocence and weakness, to womanhood and home.

_Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners!_

And yet whose is the deeper guilt? Who made these devils? Who nursed them in crime and fed them on injustice? Who ravished and debauched their mothers and their grandmothers? Who bought and sold their crime, and waxed fat and rich on public iniquity?

_Thou knowest, good God!_

Is this Thy Justice, O Father, that guile be easier than innocence, and the innocent crucified for the guilt of the untouched guilty?

_Justice, O Judge of men!_

Wherefore do we pray? Is not the God of the fathers dead? Have not seers seen in Heaven’s halls Thine hearsed and lifeless form stark amidst the black and rolling smoke of sin, where all along bow bitter forms of endless dead?

_Awake, Thou that sleepest!_

Thou art not dead, but flown afar, up hills of endless light, thru blazing corridors of suns, where worlds do swing of good and gentle men, of women strong and free--far from the cozenage, black hypocrisy and chaste prostitution of this shameful speck of dust!

_Turn again, O Lord, leave us not to perish in our sin!_

From lust of body and lust of blood _Great God, deliver us!_

From lust of power and lust of gold, _Great God, deliver us!_

From the leagued lying of despot and of brute, _Great God, deliver us!_

A city lay in travail, God our Lord, and from her loins sprang twin Murder and Black Hate. Red was the midnight; clang, crack and cry of death and fury filled the air and trembled underneath the stars when church spires pointed silently to Thee. And all this was to sate the greed of greedy men who hide behind the veil of vengeance!

_Bend us Thine ear, O Lord!_

In the pale, still morning we looked upon the deed. We stopped our ears and held our leaping hands, but they--did they not wag their heads and leer and cry with bloody jaws: _Cease from Crime!_ The word was mockery, for thus they train a hundred crimes while we do cure one.

_Turn again our captivity, O Lord!_

Behold this maimed and broken thing; dear God, it was an humble black man who toiled and sweat to save a bit from the pittance paid him. They told him: _Work and Rise_. He worked. Did this man sin? Nay, but some one told how some one said another did--one whom he had never seen nor known. Yet for that man’s crime this man lieth maimed and murdered, his wife naked to shame, his children, to poverty and evil.

_Hear us, O Heavenly Father!_

Doth not this justice of hell stink in Thy nostrils, O God? How long shall the mounting flood of innocent blood roar in Thine ears and pound in our hearts for vengeance? Pile the pale frenzy of blood-crazed brutes who do such deeds high on Thine altar, Jehovah Jireh, and burn it in hell forever and forever!

_Forgive us, good Lord; we know not what we say!_

Bewildered we are, and passion-tost, mad with the madness of a mobbed and mocked and murdered people; straining at the armposts of Thy Throne, we raise our shackled hands and charge Thee, God, by the bones of our stolen fathers, by the tears of our dead mothers, by the very blood of Thy crucified Christ: _What meaneth this?_ Tell us the Plan; give us the Sign!

_Keep not Thou silence, O God!_

Sit no longer blind, Lord God, deaf to our prayer and dumb to our dumb suffering. Surely, Thou too art not white, O Lord, a pale, bloodless, heartless thing?

_Ah! Christ of all the Pities!_

Forgive the thought! Forgive these wild, blasphemous words. Thou art still the God of our black fathers, and in Thy soul’s soul sit some soft darkenings of the evening, some shadowings of the velvet night.

But whisper--speak--call, great God, for Thy silence is white terror to our hearts! The way, O God, show us the way and point us the path.

Whither? North is greed and South is blood; within, the coward, and without the liar. Whither? To death?

_Amen! Welcome dark sleep!_

Whither? To life? But not this life, dear God, not this. Let the cup pass from us, tempt us not beyond our strength, for there is that clamoring and clawing within, to whose voice we would not listen, yet shudder lest we must, and it is red, Ah! God! It is a red and awful shape.

_Selah!_

In yonder East trembles a star. _Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!_

Thy will, O Lord, be done! _Kyrie Eleison!_

Lord, we have done these pleading, wavering words. _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_

We bow our heads and hearken soft to the sobbing of women and little children. _We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!_

Our voices sink in silence and in night. _Hear us, good Lord!_

In night, O God of a godless land! _Amen!_

In silence, O Silent God. _Selah!_

FOOTNOTES:

[9] From “Dark Water” by W. E. B. Du Bois, Copyright 1920 by Harcourt, Brace & Company, Inc.

WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE

William Stanley Braithwaite was born in Boston Dec. 6, 1878. He inherited the incentives and ideals of the intellect from an ancestry of British gentlemen. He has written verse and prose and was for many years leading reviewer of books in the _Boston Transcript_. He has published twenty volumes, and his yearly anthology of verse establishes for each year the best poetry printed in the magazines.

SCINTILLA

I kissed a kiss in youth
Upon a dead man’s brow;
And that was long ago,--
And I’m a grown man now.

It’s lain there in the dust,
Thirty years and more;--
My lips that set a light
At a dead man’s door.

RYE BREAD

Father John’s bread was made of rye, Felicite’s bread was white; Father John loved the sun noon-high, Felicite, the moon at night.

Father John drank wine with his bread; Felicite drank sweet milk; Father John loved flowers, pungent and red; Felicite, lilies soft as silk.

Father John’s soul was made of bronze, That God’s salt was corroding; Felicite’s soul was a wind that runs With a blue flame of foreboding.

Between these two was the shadow of a dome That cut their lives in twain; But Dionysus led them home In a chariot of pain.

OCTOBER XXIX, 1795

(Keats’ Birthday)

Time sitting on the throne of Memory Bade all her subject Days the past had known Arise and say what thing gave them renown Unforgetable, ‘Rising from the sea, I gave the Genoese his dreams to be;’ ‘I saw the Corsican’s Guards swept down;’ ‘Colonies I made free from a tyrant’s crown;’-- So each Day told its immortality.

And with these blazing triumphs spoke one voice Whose wistful speech no vaunting did employ: ‘I know not if ’twere by Fate’s chance or choice I hold the lowly birth of an English boy; I only know he made man’s heart rejoice Because he played with Beauty for a toy!’

DEL CASCAR

Del Cascar, Del Cascar Stood upon a flaming star, Stood and let his feet hang down Till in China the toes turned brown.

And he reached his fingers over The rim of the sea, like sails from Dover, And caught a Mandarin at prayer, And tickled his nose in Orion’s hair.

The sun went down through crimson bars, And left his blind face battered with stars-- But the brown toes in China kept Hot the tears Del Cascar wept.

JAMES EDWARD McCALL

James Edward McCall was born September 2, 1880 at Montgomery, Ala., and received his early education in the public schools of that city. Graduating from the Alabama State Normal in 1900 he entered Howard University as a medical student the same year, but some months later was forced to abandon his medical career, following an attack of typhoid fever leading to total blindness. Undaunted by this misfortune, he at once set out to develop his literary talent. During this period he read and studied much through the eyes of others, also writing many poems, a number of which were published in Southern dailies, the _New York World_ and other periodicals. _The Montgomery_ (Alabama) _Advertiser_ styled him “The Blind Tom of Literature.” One of his poems, “_Meditation_,” has been compared to Bryant’s “Thanatopsis.”

Despite his handicap, McCall determined to acquire a college education. Accompanied by his sister, he entered Albion College (Michigan) in 1905, where he was graduated two years later, being the only sightless student in the college. Returning to his natal city, he took up journalistic work, for some years being employed as a special writer for one of the local white dailies, also contributing to other periodicals, and ultimately publishing at Montgomery a successful race weekly--_The Emancipator_.

This blind writer is ably assisted in his journalistic work by his wife, to whom he was married in 1914. He and his family moved to Detroit in 1920. He is city editor and editorial writer for the _Detroit Independent_, his editorials in this publication having been widely read and re-published throughout the country during the past two years.

THE NEW NEGRO

He scans the world with calm and fearless eyes, Conscious within of powers long since forgot; At every step, new man-made barriers rise To bar his progress--but he heeds them not. He stands erect, though tempests round him crash, Though thunder bursts and billows surge and roll; He laughs and forges on, while lightnings flash Along the rocky pathway to his goal. Impassive as a Sphinx, he stares ahead-- Foresees new empires rise and old ones fall; While caste-mad nations lust for blood to shed, He sees God’s finger writing on the wall. With soul awakened, wise and strong he stands, Holding his destiny within his hands.

ANGELINA WELD GRIMKÉ

Angelina Weld Grimké was born in Boston, Mass., February 27, 1880. She was a student at Carleton Academy, Northfield, Minn., Cushing Academy, Ashburnham, Mass., and Girls’ Latin School, Boston. In 1902 she was graduated from the Boston Normal School of Gymnastics. In 1902 she began her career as a teacher in the Armstrong Manual Training School in Washington, D. C.; since 1916 she has taught in the Dunbar High School in the same city. She is the author of a three act play _Rachel_ published in 1920, short stories, and numerous poems.

HUSHED BY THE HANDS OF SLEEP

(To Dr. George F. Grant)

_I_

Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. Very gentle and quiet he lies, With a little smile of sweet surprise, Just softly hushed at lips and eyes, Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep.

_II_

Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep. Death leaned down as his eyes grew dim, And his face, I know, was not strange, not grim, But oh! it was beautiful to him, Hushed by the hands of Sleep, By the beautiful hands of Sleep.

GREENNESS

Tell me is there anything lovelier, Anything more quieting Than the green of little blades of grass And the green of little leaves?

Is not each leaf a cool green hand, Is not each blade of grass a mothering green finger, Hushing the heart that beats and beats and beats?

THE EYES OF MY REGRET

Always at dusk, the same tearless experience, The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path To the same well-worn rock; The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun, The same tints--rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey, Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily; Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to a point; Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars, Two eyes unfathomable, soul-searing, Watching, watching--watching me; The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will dusk after dusk; The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the night, chin on knees, Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly miserable,--The eyes of my Regret.

GRASS FINGERS

Touch me, touch me, Little cool grass fingers, Elusive, delicate grass fingers. With your shy brushings, Touch my face-- My naked arms-- My thighs-- My feet. Is there nothing that is kind? You need not fear me. Soon I shall be too far beneath you, For you to reach me, even, With your tiny, timorous toes.

SURRENDER

We ask for peace. We, at the bound O life, are weary of the round In search of Truth. We know the quest Is not for us, the vision blest Is meant for other eyes. Uncrowned, We go, with heads bowed to the ground, And old hands, gnarled and hard and browned. Let us forget the past unrest,-- We ask for peace.

Our strainéd ears are deaf,--no sound May reach them more; no sight may wound Our worn-out eyes. We gave our best, And, while we totter down the West, Unto that last, that open mound,-- We ask for peace.

THE WAYS O’ MEN

’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, Their comin’s and their goin’s; For there’s the grey road, The straight road With the grey dust liftin’ With ev’ry step And the little roads off-flingin’.

Maybe it’s a bit of a sly field That crooks a finger to them And sends them to the turnin’; Or the round firm bosom Of a little hill Acallin’ to them, them with their heads That heavy; Or maybe it’s the black look Given out of the tail of the eye; Or a white word, wingin’; Maybe it’s only the back of a little tot’s neck In the sunlight; Or the red lips of a woman Parting slow.... Sure there’s no tellin’.

One I saw goin’ towards a white star At the edge of a daffydill sky, Its lights kissin’ straight into his eyes. Maybe it’s a gold piece To be taken from another In the dark; Or the neat place between the ribs Waitin’ for the knife That one comes after carryin’ for it. ’Tis few, it is, that goes with the grey road The straight road All the way, With the grey dust liftin’ at ev’ry step.

’Tis queer, it is, the ways o’ men, With a level look at you, or a crooked As they be passin’. Pouf! Sure, ’tis so fast they’re goin’, Does it matter about the turnin’s?

TENEBRIS

There is a tree, by day, That, at night, Has a shadow, A hand huge and black, With fingers long and black. All through the dark, Against the white man’s house, In the little wind, The black hand plucks and plucks At the bricks. The bricks are the color of blood and very small. Is it a black hand, Or is it a shadow?

WHEN THE GREEN LIES OVER THE EARTH

When the green lies over the earth, my dear, A mantle of witching grace, When the smile and the tear of the young child year Dimple across its face, And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet With the breath of growing things, When the wooing bird lights on restless feet And chirrups and trills and sings To his lady-love In the green above, Then oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, Yours is the face that I long to have near, Yours is the face, my dear.

But the green is hiding your curls, my dear, Your curls so shining and sweet; And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet, And the little birds just above your head With their voices hushed, my dear, For you have sung and have prayed and have pled This many, many a year.

And the blossoms fall, On the garden wall, And drift like snow on the green below. But the sharp thorn grows On the budding rose, And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow. For oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year, Yours is the face that I long to have near, Yours is the face, my dear.

A MONA LISA

1.

I should like to creep
Through the long brown grasses
That are your lashes;
I should like to poise
On the very brink
Of the leaf-brown pools
That are your shadowed eyes;
I should like to cleave
Without sound,
Their glimmering waters,
Their unrippled waters,
I should like to sink down
And down
And down ...
And deeply drown.

2.

Would I be more than a bubble breaking?
Or an ever-widening circle
Ceasing at the marge?
Would my white bones
Be the only white bones
Wavering back and forth, back and forth
In their depths?

PARADOX

When face to face we stand And eye to eye, How far apart we are----As far, they say, as God can ever be From what, they say, is Hell.

* * * * *

But, when we stand Fronting the other, Mile after mile slipping in between, O, close we are, As close as is the shadow to the body, As breath, to life, ............ As kisses are to love.

* * * * *

YOUR HANDS

I love your hands: They are big hands, firm hands, gentle hands; Hair grows on the back near the wrist ... I have seen the nails broken and stained From hard work. And yet, when you touch me, I grow small ....... and quiet ........ ....... And happy .......... If I might only grow small enough To curl up into the hollow of your palm, Your left palm, Curl up, lie close and cling, So that I might know myself always there, ....... Even if you forgot.