Fenton Johnson

When I die my song shall be, Crooning of the summer breeze; When I die my shroud shall be, Leaves plucked from the maple trees ; On a couch as green as moss And a bed as soft as down, I shall sleep and dream my dream Of a poet's laurel crown.

When I die my star shall drop Singing like a nightingale; When I die my soul shall rise. Where the lyre strings never fail ; In the rose my blood shall lie. In the violet the smile. And the moonbeams thousand strong, Past my grave each night shall file.

Do you hear the witches wailing? Witches wailing, wailing, wailing, Do you see the ghost robes trailing? Ghost robes trailing, trailing, trailing It is but a nighttime whisper, But a whisper of the zephyr? Or my soul in secret meeting That dim soul whose fate is loving? Tell me, tell me, tell me, Voices of the Dusk.

Do you see those spirits lonely? Spirits lonely, lonely, lonely. Can they be for lost souls only? Lost souls only, only, only. Are they but the fearful phantoms, Fearful phantoms from my fancy? Or the sprites of conscience stricken From a region long forgotten? Tell me, tell me, tell me, Voices of the Dusk.

The rose lay dying in the summer heat And longed to save her life so fair and brief. A dryad, bathing in the noonday sun, Spied her and dropped a tear to show her grief.

The panting bloom drank deep the sweetening drop- And lived an hour to deck a singer's wreath.

One sunset when the skies were deepest red, As if they blushed for all the human sins, I saw her gather daffodils, and sighed. For she was sweeter far than those poor flowers And all the flowers that grace this universe. And in my dream I saw a crown descend From out the firmament and drop to earth. It fell beside a brook whose gleaming drops Shone like the diamonds in the sable night. And I, the humblest in the realm of men. Stooped low and placed it on her bonny head.

Turn down the lamp; my life is done. The fitful moments drift to ease — Rosemary for the dreams that died. And mignonette for cherished hopes.

Turn down the lamp; my soul gains life; I rise above the narrow pale Of cities bought with gold and slime, I spread my sorrow strengthened wings Above the armies of the world, In quest of kingdoms built in youth.

The hour of death that men call life Is closing as a troubled dream, The flame within my lamp is low, I seek eternal liberty. The freedom of the endless sky. Good nurse, enfold my arms. And cool the fever of my brow, My hour has come, turn down the lamp.