De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I say: “Good Lawd, hit’s des po ’me, En I ain’t quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; I ’m po’ en sinful, en you ’lowed I ’d be; Oh, wait, good Lawd, ’twell ter-morror!” De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I say: “Good Lawd, ef you look you ’ll see Hit ain’t nobody but des po’ me, En I like ter stay ’twell my time is free; Oh, wait, good Lawd, ’twell ter-morror!”
De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I say: “Good Lawd, hit ’s des po’ me, En I ain’t quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; I ’m po’ en sinful, en you ’lowed I ’d be; Oh, wait, good Lawd, ’twell ter-morror!” De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: “Who—who—is—you-oo?” En I...
The Softest whisperings of the scented South, And rust and roses in the cannon’s mouth; And, where the thunders of the fight were born, The wind’s sweet tenor in the standing corn; With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam, And blue skies bending over love and home. But still the thought:...
He did n’t know much music When first he come along; An’ all the birds went wonderin’ Why he did n’t sing a song. They primped their feathers in the sun, An’ sung their sweetest notes; An’ music jest come on the run From all their purty throats! But still that bird was silent In summer...
A little way to walk with you, my own— Only a little way, Then one of us must weep and walk alone Until God’s day. A little way! It is so sweet to live Together, that I know Life would not have one withered rose to give If one of us should go. And if these lips should ever learn...
He did n’t know much music When first he come along; An’ all the birds went wonderin’ Why he did n’t sing a song. They primped their feathers in the sun, An’ sung their sweetest notes; An’ music jest come on the run From all their purty throats! But still that bird was silent In summer...
