Arna Bontemps
Poplars are standing there still as death And ghosts of dead men Meet their ladies walking Two by two beneath the shade And standing on the marble steps. There is a sound of music
God give the yellow man An easy breeze at blossom time. Grant his eager, slanting eyes to cover Every land and dream Of afterwhile. Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs To whirl in tall
Then the golden hour Will tick its last And the flame will go down in the flower. A briefer length of moon Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune. Then we may think
We are not come to wage a strife With swords upon this hill, It is not wise to waste the life Against a stubborn will. Yet would we die as some have done. Beating
All night they whine upon their ropes and boom Against the dock with helpless prows: These little ships that are too worn for sailing Front the wharf but do not rest at all. Tugging
After the cloud embankments, The lamentation of wind And the starry descent into time, We came to the flashing waters and shaded our eyes From the glare. Alone with the shore and the harbor,
I have sown beside all waters in my day. I planted deep, within my heart the fear That wind or fowl would take the grain away. I planted safe against this stark, lean year.