after all,
One country, brethren! We must rise or fall
With the Supreme Republic. We must be
The makers of her immortality,—
Her freedom, fame,
Her glory or her shame:
Liegemen to God and fathers of the free!
After all—
Hark! from the heights the clear, strong, clarion call
And the command imperious: “...
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...
In the white moonlight, where the willow waves,
He halfway gallops among the graves—
A tiny ghost in the gloom and gleam,
Content to dwell where the dead men dream,
But wary still!
For they plot him ill;
For the graveyard rabbit hath a charm
(May God defend us!) to shield from harm.
Over the shimmering slabs he goes—
...
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 time an’ fall;
...
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 to smile,
With thy...
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 time an’ fall;
...
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: Somewhere,—upon the hills,
Or where the...
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 ’...
