De frost is fallin' on de gras' An' seem to say "Dis is yo' las'"-- De air is blowin' mighty cold Like it done in days of old.
I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now--unwittingly, you've made me dream Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam.
Des a little cabin Big ernuff fur two. Des awaitin', honey, Cozy fixt fur you; Down dah by de road, Not ve'y far from town, Waitin' fur de missis, When she's ready to come down.
Des a little cabin, An' er acre o' groun', Vines agrowin' on it, Fruit trees all aroun', Hollyhawks a-bloomin' In de gyahden plot-- Honey, would you like to Own dat little spot?
Make dat little cabin Cheery, clean an' bright, With an' angel in it Like a ray of light? Make dat little palace Somethin' fine an' gran', Make it like an Eden, Fur a lonely man?
Des you listen, Honey, While I 'splain it all, How some lady's go'nter Boss dat little hall; Des you take my ban' Dat's de way it's writ, Des you take my heart, Dat's de deed to it.
Full many lift and sing Their sweet imagining; Not yet the Lyric Seer, The one bard of the throng, With highest gift of song, Breaks on our sentient ear.
Not yet the gifted child, With notes enraptured, wild, That storm and throng the heart, To make his rage our own, Our hearts his lyric throne; Hard won by cosmic art.
I hear the sad refrain, Of slavery's sorrow-strain; The broken half-lispt speech Of freedom's twilit hour; The greater growing reach Of larger latent power.
Here and there a growing note Swells from a conscious throat; Thrilled with a message fraught The pregnant hour is near; We wait our Lyric Seer, By whom our wills are caught.
Who makes our cause and wrong The motif of his song; Who sings our racial good, Bestows us honor's place, The cosmic brotherhood Of genius--not of race.