We is gathahed hyeah, my brothahs,
In dis howlin' wildaness,
Fu' to speak some words of comfo't
OUTSIDE the rain upon the street,
The sky all grim of hue,
Inside, the music-painful sweet,
What dreams we have and how they fly
Like rosy clouds across the sky;
Of wealth, of fame, of sure success,
THE YOUNG MASTER ASKS FOR A STORY
Whut you say, dah? huh, uh! chile,
You 's enough to dribe me wile.
WHAT'S the use o' folks a-frownin'
When the way's a little rough?
Frowns lay out the road fur smilin'
You'll be wrinkled soon enough.
I HAD not known before
Forever was so long a word.
The slow stroke of the clock of time
I had not heard.
She told the story, and the whole world wept
At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
But for this fearless woman's voice alone.
Pray why are you so bare, so bare,
Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;
And why, when I go through the shade you throw,
Runs a shudder over me?
Come when the nights are bright with stars
Or when the moon is mellow;
Come when the sun his golden bars
Drops on the hay-field yellow.