A traveller who has always heard That on this journey he some day must go, Yet shudders now, when at the fatal word He starts upon the lonesome, dreary way. The past, a page of joy and woe,--the future, none can say.
Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty: A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow, Bending beneath a weight of early snow, Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk, And spread a heavy white chilly afghan Over its crested leaves. Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing, Claiming the right to live another fortnight, Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come, Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched Long chill fingers into the brown, streaming hair Of fleeing October.
The film of snow shrouded the proud redness of the tree, As premature grief grays the strong head Of a virile, red-haired man.
I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists’ shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now--unwittingly, you’ve made me dream Of violets, and my soul’s forgotten gleam.
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?
Alice Dunbar-Nelson was an American poet, short story writer, journalist, and political activist active from the 1890s through the 1930s. Born in New Orleans, she published her first collection, Violets and Other Tales, in 1895. Her poetry often employs traditional forms and lyrical language to explore themes of nature, romantic love, and the complexities of racial and gender identity. Dunbar-Nelson also addressed social injustice and the experiences of African American women in her verse and prose. In addition to her literary work, she was a teacher and a prominent advocate for women's suffrage and civil rights. She married poet Paul Laurence Dunbar in 1898; they later separated. She continued to publish poetry, essays, and short stories in periodicals throughout her career and edited works such as Masterpieces of Negro Eloquence. Dunbar-Nelson is recognized as an important figure in early African American literature, often considered a precursor to the Harlem Renaissance. Her writings document the intersection of race, gender, and artistry in the Jim Crow era.
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