#Americans #Blacks
Aye, lay him in his grave, the old… His life is lived—fulfilled his de… Have you for him no sad, regretful… To drop beside the cold, unfollowe… Can you not pay the tribute of a s…
If I could but forget The fullness of those first sweet… When you burst sun—like thro’ the… Of unacquaintance, on my sight, And made the wet, gray day seem br…
SILENTLY without my window, Tapping gently at the pane, Falls the rain. Through the trees sighs the breeze Like a soul in pain.
This poem must be done to—day; Then, I 'll e’en to it. I must not dream my time away,— I ‘m sure to rue it. The day is rather bright, I know
I like to hear of wealth and gold, And El Doradoes in their glory; I like for silks and satins bold To sweep and rustle through a stor… The nightingale is sweet of song;
DEY was oncet a awful quoil 'twix… De pot was des a—bilin’ an’ de ski… Dey slurred each othah’s colah an’… W’ile de coal—oil can des gu—gled,… De pot, hit called de skillet des…
Long since, in sore distress, I h… ‘Lord, who prevailest with resistl… Ever from war and strife keep me a… My battles fight!’ I know not if I play the Pharisee…
COME away to dreamin’ town, Mandy Lou, Mandy Lou, Whaih de skies don’ nevah frown, Mandy Lou; Whaih de streets is paved with gol…
We is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs, In dis howlin’ wildaness, Fu’ to speak some words of comfo’t To each othah in distress. An’ we chooses fu’ ouah subjic’
Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust, What of his loving, what of his lu… What of his passion, what of his p… What of his poverty, what of his p… Earth, the great mother, has calle…
In this sombre garden close What has come and passed, who know… What red passion, what white pain Haunted this dim walk in vain? Underneath the ivied wall,
When the bees are humming in the h… And the summer days are in their b… Then my love is deepest, oh, deare… When the bees are humming in the h… When the winds are moaning o’er th…
OH the breeze is blowin’ balmy And the sun is in a haze; There’s a cloud jest givin’ coolne… To the laziest of days. There are crowds upon the lakeside…
FOLKS ain’t got no right to cens… Him dat giv’ de squir’ls de bushta… Him dat built de gread big mountai… Him dat made de streets an’ drivew… We is all constructed diff’ent, d’…
'T is better to sit here beside th… Here on the spray—kissed beach, In silence, that between such frie… Is full of deepest speech.