Chapter I: Sit and Sew

I sit and sew--a useless task it seems, My hands grown tired, my head weighed down with dreams-- The panoply of war, the martial tread of men, Grim-faced, stern-eyed, gazing beyond the ken Of lesser souls, whose eyes have not seen Death Nor learned to hold their lives but as a breath-- But--I must sit and sew.

I sit and sew--my heart aches with desire-- That pageant terrible, that fiercely pouring fire On wasted fields, and writhing grotesque things Once men. My soul in pity flings Appealing cries, yearning only to go There in that holocaust of hell, those fields of woe-- But--I must sit and sew.--

The little useless seam, the idle patch; Why dream I here beneath my homely thatch, When there they lie in sodden mud and rain, Pitifully calling me, the quick ones and the slain? You need me, Christ! It is no roseate dream That beckons me--this pretty futile seam, It stifles me--God, must I sit and sew?

GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON

Many years ago a little yellow girl in Atlanta, Georgia, came across a poem in a current paper that told of a rose struggling to bloom in a window in New York City. A child tended this flower and her whole life was wrapt up in its fate. This poem was written by William Stanley Braithwaite, years before the world knew how marvellous was his mind. Some one told the reader of these lines that the writer was colored and straightway she began to walk upward toward him.

This little girl grew up, went to Atlanta University, Oberlin Conservatory, taught school, then married Henry Lincoln Johnson, always looking forward toward the light of the poet Braithwaite.

Then her husband was appointed Recorder of Deeds under Taft and she was moved by circumstances to the capital--Washington.

Dean Kelly Miller at Howard University saw some of her poetic efforts and was pleased. Stanley Braithwaite was his friend and he directed her to send something to him at Boston. She did so, and then began a quickening and a realization that she could do!

Following this happy event, Dr. W. E. B. Du Bois of the _Crisis_ brought out two poems from her pen that awakened the interest of readers.

At this time Jessie Fauset, the novelist, was teaching French in Washington and very generously helped her to gather together material for her first book _The Heart of A Woman_ with an introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite. This was followed by _Bronze_, a book of color with an introduction by W. E. B. Du Bois. Her third attempt in poetry was _An Autumn Love Cycle_ with an introduction by Alain Locke, the editor of _The New Negro_.

At present she is connected with the Department of Labor at Washington, as Commissioner of Conciliation. At her home there you may find the young writers gathered together almost any Saturday night exchanging ideas, reciting new poems or discussing plans for new creations.

SERVICE

When we count out our gold at the end of the day, And have filtered the dross that has cumbered the way, Oh, what were the hold of our treasury then Save the love we have shown to the children of men?

HOPE

Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue, The shadows are flecked by the rose sifting through, The world has its motion, all things pass away, No night is omnipotent, there must be day.

The oak tarries long in the depth of the seed, But swift is the season of nettle and weed, Abide yet awhile in the mellowing shade, And rise with the hour for which you were made.

The cycle of seasons, the tidals of man Revolve in the orb of an infinite plan, We move to the rhythm of ages long done, And each has his hour--to dwell in the sun!

THE SUPPLIANT

Long have I beat with timid hands upon life’s leaden door, Praying the patient, futile prayer my fathers prayed before, Yet I remain without the close, unheeded and unheard, And never to my listening ear is borne the waited word.

Soft o’er the threshold of the years there comes this counsel cool: The strong demand, contend, prevail; the beggar is a fool!

LITTLE SON

The very acme of my woe,
The pivot of my pride,
My consolation, and my hope
Deferred, but not denied.
The substance of my every dream,
The riddle of my plight,
The very world epitomized
In turmoil and delight.

OLD BLACK MEN

They have dreamed as young men dream
Of glory, love and power;
They have hoped as youth will hope
Of life’s sun-minted hour.

They have seen as others saw
Their bubbles burst in air,
And they have learned to live it down
As though they did not care.

LETHE

I do not ask for love, ah! no,
Nor friendship’s happiness,
These were relinquished long ago;
I search for something less.

I seek a little tranquil bark
In which to drift at ease
Awhile, and then quite silently
To sink in quiet seas.

PROVING

Were you a leper bathed in wounds
And by the world denied;
I’d share your fatal exile
As a privilege and pride.
You are to me the sun, the moon,
The starlight of my soul,
The sounding motif of my heart,
The impetus and goal!