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Georgia Douglas Johnson
The breaking dead leaves 'neath my feet
A plaintive melody repeat,
Recalling shattered hopes that lie
As relics of a bygone sky.
Again I thread the mazy past,
Back where the mounds are scattered fast -
Oh! foolish tears, why do you start,
To break of dead leaves in the heart?
He is my rose,
Pricking my finger and drawing blood,
But also sweetly tempting,
My melody,
Haunting me in my dreams,
But also calming and soothing,
A poem,
Leading me in circles, confusing me,
But also helping me understand life,
I have many ways to look at him,
My rose,
My melody,
A poem,
But he is always there,
Unmoving,
Unshifting,
When May is here, and every morn
Is dappled with pied bells,
And dewdrops glance along the thorn
And wings flash in the dells,
I take my pipe and play a tune
Of dreams, a whispered melody,
For feet that dance beneath the moon
In fairy jollity.
And when the pastoral hills are grey
And the dim stars are spread,
A scamper fills the grass like play
Of feet where fairies tread.
And many a little whispering thing
Is calling to the Shee.
The dewy bells of evening ring,
And all is melody.
I fell asleep,
Hearing melody
That fell from lip to lip.
The stars sang it
To the wind, that took it
To the rose, shivering in the cold of night.
The rose gave it
To the nightingale, who sang it
Back to the stars, the earth and the sea.
And I, to it listening,
Fell asleep dreaming.