The Book of American Negro Poetry Part 9

In silence, O Silent G.o.d.

_Selah!_

George Marion McClellan

DOGWOOD BLOSSOMS

To dreamy languors and the violet mist Of early Spring, the deep sequestered vale Gives first her paling-blue Miamimist, Where blithely pours the cuckoo's annual tale Of Summer promises and tender green, Of a new life and beauty yet unseen.

The forest trees have yet a sighing mouth, Where dying winds of March their branches swing, While upward from the dreamy, sunny South, A hand invisible leads on the Spring.

His rounds from bloom to bloom the bee begins With flying song, and cowslip wine he sups, Where to the warm and pa.s.sing southern winds, Azaleas gently swing their yellow cups.

Soon everywhere, with glory through and through, The fields will spread with every brilliant hue.

But high o'er all the early floral train, Where softness all the arching sky resumes, The dogwood dancing to the winds' refrain, In stainless glory spreads its snowy blooms.

A b.u.t.tERFLY IN CHURCH

What dost thou here, thou s.h.i.+ning, sinless thing, With many colored hues and shapely wing?

Why quit the open field and summer air To flutter here? Thou hast no need of prayer.

'Tis meet that we, who this great structure built, Should come to be redeemed and washed from guilt, For we this gilded edifice within Are come, with erring hearts and stains of sin.

But thou art free from guilt as G.o.d on high; Go, seek the blooming waste and open sky, And leave us here our secret woes to bear, Confessionals and agonies of prayer.

THE HILLS OF SEWANEE

Sewanee Hills of dear delight, Prompting my dreams that used to be, I know you are waiting me still to-night By the Unika Range of Tennessee.

The blinking stars in endless s.p.a.ce, The broad moonlight and silvery gleams, To-night caress your wind-swept face, And fold you in a thousand dreams.

Your far outlines, less seen than felt, Which wind with hill propensities, In moonlight dreams I see you melt Away in vague immensities.

And, far away, I still can feel Your mystery that ever speaks Of vanished things, as shadows steal Across your breast and rugged peaks.

O, dear blue hills, that lie apart, And wait so patiently down there, Your peace takes hold upon my heart And makes its burden less to bear.

THE FEET OF JUDAS

Christ washed the feet of Judas!

The dark and evil pa.s.sions of his soul, His secret plot, and sordidness complete, His hate, his purposing, Christ knew the whole, And still in love he stooped and washed his feet.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!

Yet all his lurking sin was bare to him, His bargain with the priest, and more than this, In Olivet, beneath the moonlight dim, Aforehand knew and felt his treacherous kiss.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!

And so ineffable his love 'twas meet, That pity fill his great forgiving heart, And tenderly to wash the traitor's feet, Who in his Lord had basely sold his part.

Christ washed the feet of Judas!

And thus a girded servant, self-abased, Taught that no wrong this side the gate of heaven Was ever too great to wholly be effaced, And though unasked, in spirit be forgiven.

And so if we have ever felt the wrong Of Trampled rights, of caste, it matters not, What e'er the soul has felt or suffered long, Oh, heart! this one thing should not be forgot: Christ washed the feet of Judas.

William Stanley Braithwaite

SANDY STAR AND WILLIE GEE

Sandy Star and Willie Gee, Count 'em two, you make 'em three: Pluck the man and boy apart And you'll see into my heart.

SANDY STAR

I

_Sculptured Wors.h.i.+p_

The zones of warmth around his heart, No alien airs had crossed; But he awoke one morn to feel The magic numbness of autumnal frost.

His thoughts were a loose skein of threads, And tangled emotions, vague and dim; And sacrificing what he loved He lost the dearest part of him.

In sculptured wors.h.i.+p now he lives, His one desire a prisoned ache; If he can never melt again His very heart will break.

II

_Laughing It Out_

He had a whim and laughed it out Upon the exit of a chance; He floundered in a sea of doubt-- If life was real--or just romance.

Sometimes upon his brow would come A little pucker of defiance; He totalled in a word the sum Of all man made of facts and science.

And then a hearty laugh would break, A rea.s.suring shrug of shoulder; And we would from his fancy take A faith in death which made life bolder.

III

_Exit_

No, his exit by the gate Will not leave the wind ajar; He will go when it is late With a misty star.

One will call, he cannot see; One will call, he will not hear; He will take no company Nor a hope or fear.

We shall smile who loved him so-- They who gave him hate will weep; But for us the winds will blow Pulsing through his sleep.