James Weldon Johnson

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.

I hear the stars still singing To the beautiful, silent night, As they speed with noiseless winging Their ever westward flight. I hear the waves still falling On the stretch of lonely shore, But the sound of a sweet voice calling I shall hear, alas! no more.

For fifty years, Cruel, insatiable Old World, You have punched me over the heart Till you made me cough blood. The few paltry things I gathered You snatched out of my hands. You have knocked the cup from my thirsty lips. You have laughed at my hunger of body and soul. You look at me now and think, "He is still strong, There ought to be twenty more years of good punching there. At the end of that time he will be old and broken, Not able to strike back, But cringing and crying for leave To live a little longer." Those twenty, pitiful, extra years Would please you more than the fifty past, Would they not, Old World? Well, I hold them up before your greedy eyes, And snatch them away as I laugh in your face, Ha! Ha! Bang--!

The snow has ceased its fluttering flight, The wind sunk to a whisper light, An ominous stillness fills the night, A pause--a hush. At last, a sound that breaks the spell, Loud, clanging mouthings of a bell, That through the silence peal and swell, And roll, and rush. What does this brazen tongue declare, That falling on the midnight air Brings to my heart a sense of care Akin to fright? 'Tis telling that the year is dead, The New Year come, the Old Year fled, Another leaf before me spread On which to write. It tells the deeds that were not done, It tells of races never run, Of victories that were not won, Barriers unleaped. It tells of many a squandered day, Of slighted gems and treasured clay, Of precious stores not laid away, Of fields unreaped. And so the years go swiftly by, Each, coming, brings ambitions high, And each, departing, leaves a sigh Linked to the past. Large resolutions, little deeds; Thus, filled with aims unreached, life speeds Until the blotted record reads, "Failure!" at last.

In a backwoods town Lived Deacon Brown, And he was a miser old; He would trust no bank, So he dug, and sank In the ground a box of gold, Down deep in the ground a box of gold. He hid his gold, As has been told, He remembered that he did it; But sad to say, On the very next day, He forgot just where he hid it: To find his gold he tried and tried Till he grew faint and sick, and died. Then on each dark and gloomy night A form in phosphorescent white, A genuine hair-raising sight, Would wander through the town. And as it slowly roamed around, With a spade it dug each foot of ground; So the folks about Said there was no doubt 'Twas the ghost of Deacon Brown. Around the church This Ghost would search, And whenever it would see The passers-by Take wings and fly It would laugh in ghostly glee, Hee, hee!--it would laugh in ghostly glee. And so the town Went quickly down, For they said that it was haunted; And doors and gates, So the story states, Bore a notice, "Tenants wanted." And the town is now for let, But the ghost is digging yet.

To chase a never-reached mirage Across the hot, white sand, And choke and die, while gazing on Its green and watered strand.

Out of the infinite sea of eternity To climb, and for an instant stand Upon an island speck of time. From the impassible peace of the darkness To wake, and blink at the garish light Through one short hour of fretfulness.

Sometimes the mist overhangs my path, And blackening clouds about me cling; But, oh, I have a magic way To turn the gloom to cheerful day-- I softly sing. And if the way grows darker still, Shadowed by Sorrow's somber wing, With glad defiance in my throat, I pierce the darkness with a note, And sing, and sing. I brood not over the broken past, Nor dread whatever time may bring; No nights are dark, no days are long, While in my heart there swells a song, And I can sing.