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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The weary blues

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Title: The weary blues

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Author: Langston Hughes

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Author of introduction, etc.: Carl Van Vechten

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Release date: November 16, 2024 [eBook #74745]

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Language: English

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Original publication: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1926

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Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74745

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WEARY BLUES ***

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Transcriber’s Notes

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Misspelled words have been corrected. These are identified by ♦♠♥♣ symbols in the text and are shown immediately below the paragraph or section in which they appear.

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Details and other notes may be found at the end of this eBook.

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THE WEARY BLUES

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_by_

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LANGSTON HUGHES

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_WITH AN INTRODUCTON BY CARL VAN VECHTEN_

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[Illustration: logo]

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NEW YORK ALFRED · A · KNOPF 1926

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THE WEARY BLUES

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COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC · SET UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, N. Y. · ESPARTO PAPER MANUFACTURED IN SCOTLAND AND FURNISHED BY W. F. ETHERINGTON & CO., NEW YORK · BOUND BY THE H. WOLFF ESTATE, NEW YORK.

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MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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TO MY MOTHER

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I wish to thank the editors of _The Crisis_, _Opportunity_, _Survey Graphic_, _Vanity Fair_, _The World Tomorrow_ and _The Amsterdam News_ for having first published some of the poems in this book.

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INTRODUCING LANGSTON HUGHES TO THE READER

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_I_

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_At the moment I cannot recall the name of any other person whatever who, at the age of twenty-three, has enjoyed so picturesque and rambling an existence as Langston Hughes. Indeed, a complete account of his disorderly and delightfully fantastic career would make a fascinating picaresque romance which I hope this young Negro will write before so much more befalls him that he may find it difficult to capture all the salient episodes within the limits of a single volume._

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_Born on February 1, 1902, in Joplin, Missouri, he had lived, before his twelfth year, in the City of Mexico, Topeka, Kansas, Colorado Springs, Charlestown, Indiana, Kansas City, and Buffalo. He attended Central High School, from which he graduated, at Cleveland, Ohio, while in the summer, there and in Chicago, he worked as delivery- and dummy-boy in hat-stores. In his senior year he was elected class poet and editor of the Year Book._

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_After four years in Cleveland, he once more joined his father in Mexico, only to migrate to New York where he entered Columbia University. There, finding the environment distasteful, or worse, he remained till spring, when he quit, broke with his father and, with thirteen dollars in cash, went on his own. First, he worked for a truck-farmer on Staten Island; next, he delivered flowers for Thorley; at length he partially satisfied an insatiable craving to go to sea by signing up with an old ship anchored in the Hudson for the winter. His first real cruise as a sailor carried him to the Canary Islands, the Azores, and the West Coast of Africa, of which voyage he has written: “Oh, the sun in Dakar! Oh, the little black girls of Burutu! Oh, the blue, blue bay of Loanda! Calabar, the city lost in a forest; the long, shining days at sea, the masts rocking against the stars at night; the black Kru-boy sailors, taken at Freetown, bathing on deck morning and evening; Tom Pey and Haneo, whose dangerous job it was to dive under the seven-ton mahogany logs floating and bobbing at the ship’s side and fasten them to the chains of the crane; the vile houses of rotting women at Lagos; the desolation of the Congo; Johnny Walker, and the millions of whisky bottles buried in the sea along the West Coast; the daily fights on board, officers, sailors, everybody drunk; the timorous, frightened missionaries we carried as passengers; and George, the Kentucky colored boy, dancing and singing the Blues on the after-deck under the stars.”_

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_Returning to New York with plenty of money and a monkey, he presently shipped again—this time for Holland. Again he came back to New York and again he sailed—on his twenty-second birthday: February 1, 1924. Three weeks later he found himself in Paris with less than seven dollars. However, he was soon provided for: a woman of his own race engaged him as doorman at her boîte de nuit. Later he was employed, first as second cook, then as waiter, at the Grand Duc, where the Negro entertainer, Florence, sang at this epoch. Here he made friends with an Italian family who carried him off to their villa at Desenzano on Lago di Garda where he passed a happy month, followed by a night in Verona and a week in Venice. On his way back across Italy his passport was stolen and he became a beach-comber in Genoa. He has described his life there to me: “Wine and figs and pasta. And sunlight! And amusing companions, dozens of other beach-combers roving the dockyards and water-front streets, getting their heads whacked by the Fascisti, and breaking one loaf of bread into so many pieces that nobody got more than a crumb. I lived in the public gardens along the water-front and slept in the Albergo Populare for two lire a night amidst the snores of hundreds of other derelicts.... I painted my way home as a sailor. It seems that I must have painted the whole ship myself. We made a regular ‘grand tour’: Livorno, Napoli (we passed so close to Capri I could have cried). Then all around Sicily—Catania, Messina, Palermo—the Lipari Islands, miserable little peaks of pumice stone out in the sea; then across to Spain, divine Spain! My buddy and I went on a spree in Valencia for a night and a day.... Oh, the sweet wine of Valencia!”_

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_He arrived in New York on November 10, 1924. That evening I attended a dance given in Harlem by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. Some time during the course of the night, Walter White asked me to meet two young Negro poets. He introduced me to Countée Cullen and Langston Hughes. Before that moment I had never heard of either of them._

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_II_

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_I have merely sketched a primitive outline of a career as rich in adventures as a fruit-cake is full of raisins. I have already stated that I hope Langston Hughes may be persuaded to set it down on paper in the minutest detail, for the bull-fights in Mexico, the drunken gaiety of the Grand Duc, the delicately exquisite grace of the little black girls at Burutu, the exotic languor of the Spanish women at Valencia, the barbaric jazz dances of the cabarets in New York’s own Harlem, the companionship of sailors of many races and nationalities, all have stamped an indelible impression on the highly sensitized, poetic imagination of this young Negro, an impression which has found its initial expression in the poems assembled in this book._

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_And also herein may be discerned that nostalgia for color and warmth and beauty which explains this boy’s nomadic instincts._

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_“We should have a land of sun, Of gorgeous sun, And a land of fragrant water Where the twilight Is a soft bandanna handkerchief Of rose and gold, And not this land where life is cold,”_

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_he sings. Again, he tells his dream:_

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_“To fling my arms wide In the face of the sun, Dance! whirl! whirl! Till the quick day is done. Rest at pale evening.... A tall, slim tree.... Night coming tenderly. Black like me.”_

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_More of this wistful longing may be discovered in the poems entitled_ The South _and_ As I Grew Older. _His verses, however, are by no means limited to an exclusive mood; he writes caressingly of little black prostitutes in Harlem; his cabaret songs throb with the true jazz rhythm; his sea-pieces ache with a calm, melancholy lyricism; he cries bitterly from the heart of his race in_ Cross _and_ The Jester; _he sighs, in one of the most successful of his fragile poems, over the loss of a loved friend. Always, however, his stanzas are subjective, personal. They are the (I had almost said informal, for they have a highly deceptive air of spontaneous improvisation) expression of an essentially sensitive and subtly illusive nature, seeking always to break through the veil that obscures for him, at least in some degree, the ultimate needs of that nature._

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_To the Negro race in America, since the day when Phillis Wheatley indited lines to General George Washington and other aristocratic figures (for Phillis Wheatley never sang “My way’s cloudy,” or “By an by, I’m goin to lay down dis heavy load”) there have been born many poets. Paul Laurence Dunbar, James Weldon Johnson, Claude McKay, Jean Toomer, Georgia Douglas Johnson, Countée Cullen, are a few of the more memorable names. Not the least of these names, I think, is that of Langston Hughes, and perhaps his adventures and personality offer the promise of as rich a fulfillment as has been the lot of any of the others._

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Carl Van Vechten.

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_New York._

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_August 3, 1925._

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CONTENTS

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Introducing Langston Hughes to the reader ♦9 _by Carl Van Vechten_

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Proem ♠19

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THE WEARY BLUES

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The Weary Blues 23 Jazzonia 25 Negro Dancers 26 The Cat and the Saxophone 27 Young Singer 28 Cabaret 29 To Midnight Nan at Leroy’s 30 To a Little Lover-Lass, Dead 31 Harlem Night Club 32 Nude Young Dancer 33 Young Prostitute 34 To a Black Dancer 35 Song for a Banjo Dance 36 Blues Fantasy 37 Lenox Avenue: Midnight 39

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DREAM VARIATIONS

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Dream Variations 43 Winter Moon 44 Poème d’Automne 45 Fantasy in Purple 46 March Moon 47 Joy 48

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THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

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The Negro Speaks of Rivers ♥51 Cross 52 The Jester 53 The South 54 As I Grew Older 55 Aunt Sue’s Stories 57 Poem 58

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A BLACK PIERROT

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A Black Pierrot 61 Harlem Night Song 62 Songs to the Dark Virgin 63 Ardella 64 Poem—To the Black Beloved 65 When Sue Wears Red 66 Pierrot 67

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WATER FRONT STREETS

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Water Front Streets 71 A Farewell 72 Long Trip 73 Port Town 74 Sea Calm 75 Caribbean Sunset 76 Young Sailor 77 Seascape 78 Natcha 79 Sea Charm 80 Death of an Old Seaman 81

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SHADOWS IN THE SUN

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Beggar Boy 85 Troubled Woman 86 Suicide’s Note 87 Sick Room 88 Soledad 89 To the Dark Mercedes 90 Mexican Market Woman 91 After Many Springs 92 Young Bride 93 The Dream Keeper 94 Poem (To F. S.) 95

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OUR LAND

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Our Land 99 Lament for Dark Peoples 100 Afraid 101 Poem—For the Portrait of an African Boy 102 Summer Night 103 Disillusion 104 Danse Africaine 105 The White Ones 106 Mother to Son 107 Poem 108 Epilogue 109

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♦ “15” replaced with “9” ♠ “13” replaced with “19” ♥ “50” replaced with “51”

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PROEM

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I am a Negro: Black as the night is black, Black like the depths of my Africa.

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I’ve been a slave: Caesar told me to keep his door-steps clean. I brushed the boots of Washington.

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I’ve been a worker: Under my hand the pyramids arose. I made mortar for the Woolworth Building.

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I’ve been a singer: All the way from Africa to Georgia I carried my sorrow songs. I made ragtime.

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I’ve been a victim: The Belgians cut off my hands in the Congo. They lynch me now in Texas.

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I am a Negro: Black as the night is black, Black like the depths of my Africa.

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THE WEARY BLUES

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THE WEARY BLUES

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Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a lazy sway.... He did a lazy sway.... To the tune o’ those Weary Blues. With his ebony hands on each ivory key He made that poor piano moan with melody. O Blues! Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool. Sweet Blues! Coming from a black man’s soul. O Blues! In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan— “Ain’t got nobody in all this world, Ain’t got nobody but ma self. I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’ And put ma troubles on the shelf.” Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. He played a few chords then he sang some more— “I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied. Got the Weary Blues And can’t be satisfied— I ain’t happy no mo’ And I wish that I had died.” And far into the night he crooned that tune. The stars went out and so did the moon. The singer stopped playing and went to bed While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.

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JAZZONIA

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Oh, silver tree! Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

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In a Harlem cabaret Six long-headed jazzers play. A dancing girl whose eyes are bold Lifts high a dress of silken gold.

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Oh, singing tree! Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

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Were Eve’s eyes In the first garden Just a bit too bold? Was Cleopatra gorgeous In a gown of gold?

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Oh, shining tree! Oh, silver rivers of the soul!

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In a whirling cabaret Six long-headed jazzers play.

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NEGRO DANCERS

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“Me an’ ma baby’s Got two mo’ ways, Two mo’ ways to do de buck! Da, da, Da, da, da! Two mo’ ways to do de buck!”

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Soft light on the tables, Music gay, Brown-skin steppers In a cabaret.

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White folks, laugh! White folks, pray!

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“Me an’ ma baby’s Got two mo’ ways, Two mo’ ways to do de buck!”

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THE CAT AND THE SAXOPHONE (2 A.M.)

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EVERYBODY Half-pint,— Gin? No, make it LOVES MY BABY corn. You like liquor, don’t you, honey? BUT MY BABY Sure. Kiss me, DON’T LOVE NOBODY daddy. BUT ME. Say! EVERYBODY Yes? WANTS MY BABY I’m your BUT MY BABY sweetie, ain’t I? DON’T WANT NOBODY Sure. BUT Then let’s ME, do it! SWEET ME. Charleston, mamma! !

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YOUNG SINGER

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One who sings “chansons vulgaires” In a Harlem cellar Where the jazz-band plays From dark to dawn Would not understand Should you tell her That she is like a nymph For some wild faun.

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CABARET

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Does a jazz-band ever sob? They say a jazz-band’s gay. Yet as the vulgar dancers whirled And the wan night wore away, One said she heard the jazz-band sob When the little dawn was grey.

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TO MIDNIGHT NAN AT LEROY’S

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Strut and wiggle, Shameless gal. Wouldn’t no good fellow Be your pal.

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_Hear dat music.... Jungle night. Hear dat music.... And the moon was white._

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Sing your Blues song, Pretty baby. You want lovin’ And you don’t mean maybe.

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_Jungle lover.... Night black boy.... Two against the moon And the moon was joy._

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Strut and wiggle, Shameless Nan. Wouldn’t no good fellow Be your man.

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TO A LITTLE LOVER-LASS, DEAD

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She Who searched for lovers In the night Has gone the quiet way Into the still, Dark land of death Beyond the rim of day.

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Now like a little lonely waif She walks An endless street And gives her kiss to nothingness. Would God his lips were sweet!

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HARLEM NIGHT CLUB

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Sleek black boys in a cabaret. Jazz-band, jazz-band,— Play, plAY, PLAY! Tomorrow....who knows? Dance today!

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White girls’ eyes Call gay black boys. Black boys’ lips Grin jungle joys.

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Dark brown girls In blond men’s arms. Jazz-band, jazz-band,— Sing Eve’s charms!

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White ones, brown ones, What do you know About tomorrow Where all paths go?

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Jazz-boys, jazz-boys,— Play, plAY, PLAY! Tomorrow....is darkness. Joy today!

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NUDE YOUNG DANCER

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What jungle tree have you slept under, Midnight dancer of the jazzy hour? What great forest has hung its perfume Like a sweet veil about your bower?

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What jungle tree have you slept under, Night-dark girl of the swaying hips? What star-white moon has been your mother? To what clean boy have you offered your lips?

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YOUNG PROSTITUTE

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Her dark brown face Is like a withered flower On a broken stem. Those kind come cheap in Harlem So they say.

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TO A BLACK DANCER IN “THE LITTLE SAVOY”

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Wine-maiden Of the jazz-tuned night, Lips Sweet as purple dew, Breasts Like the pillows of all sweet dreams, Who crushed The grapes of joy And dripped their juice On you?

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SONG FOR A BANJO DANCE

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Shake your brown feet, honey, Shake your brown feet, chile, Shake your brown feet, honey, Shake ’em swift and wil’— Get way back, honey, Do that low-down step. Walk on over, darling, Now! Come out With your left. Shake your brown feet, honey, Shake ’em, honey chile.

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Sun’s going down this evening— Might never rise no mo’. The sun’s going down this very night— Might never rise no mo’— So dance with swift feet, honey, (The banjo’s sobbing low) Dance with swift feet, honey— Might never dance no mo’.

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Shake your brown feet, Liza, Shake ’em, Liza, chile, Shake your brown feet, Liza, (The music’s soft and wil’) Shake your brown feet, Liza, (The banjo’s sobbing low) The sun’s going down this very night— Might never rise no mo’.

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BLUES FANTASY

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Hey! Hey! That’s what the Blues singers say. Singing minor melodies They laugh, Hey! Hey!

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My man’s done left me, Chile, he’s gone away. My good man’s left me, Babe, he’s gone away. Now the cryin’ blues Haunts me night and day.

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Hey!...Hey!

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Weary, Weary, Trouble, pain. Sun’s gonna shine Somewhere Again.

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I got a railroad ticket, Pack my trunk and ride.

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Sing ’em, sister!

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Got a railroad ticket, Pack my trunk and ride. And when I get on the train I’ll cast my blues aside.

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Laughing, Hey!...Hey! Laugh a loud, Hey! Hey!

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LENOX AVENUE: MIDNIGHT

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The rhythm of life Is a jazz rhythm, Honey. The gods are laughing at us.

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The broken heart of love, The weary, weary heart of pain,— Overtones, Undertones, To the rumble of street cars, To the swish of rain.

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Lenox Avenue, Honey. Midnight, And the gods are laughing at us.

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DREAM VARIATIONS

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♦DREAM VARIATIONS

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To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. Then rest at cool evening Beneath a tall tree While night comes on gently, Dark like me,— That is my dream!

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To fling my arms wide In the face of the sun, Dance! whirl! whirl! Till the quick day is done. Rest at pale evening.... A tall, slim tree.... Night coming tenderly Black like me.

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♦ “DREAM VARIATION” replaced with “DREAM VARIATIONS”

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WINTER MOON

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How thin and sharp is the moon tonight! How thin and sharp and ghostly white Is the slim curved crook of the moon tonight!

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POÈME D’AUTOMNE

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The autumn leaves Are too heavy with color. The slender trees On the Vulcan Road Are dressed in scarlet and gold Like young courtesans Waiting for their lovers. But soon The winter winds Will strip their bodies bare And then The sharp, sleet-stung Caresses of the cold Will be their only Love.

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FANTASY IN PURPLE

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Beat the drums of tragedy for me. Beat the drums of tragedy and death. And let the choir sing a stormy song To drown the rattle of my dying breath.

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Beat the drums of tragedy for me, And let the white violins whir thin and slow, But blow one blaring trumpet note of sun To go with me to the darkness where I go.

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MARCH MOON

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The moon is naked. The wind has undressed the moon. The wind has blown all the cloud-garments Off the body of the moon And now she’s naked, Stark naked.

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But why don’t you blush, O shameless moon? Don’t you know It isn’t nice to be naked?

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JOY

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I went to look for Joy, Slim, dancing Joy, Gay, laughing Joy, Bright-eyed Joy,— And I found her Driving the butcher’s cart In the arms of the butcher boy! Such company, such company, As keeps this young nymph, Joy!

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THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

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THE NEGRO SPEAKS OF RIVERS

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(To W. E. B. DuBois)

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I’ve known rivers:

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I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

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My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

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I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

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I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers.

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My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

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CROSS

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My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back.

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If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in hell, I’m sorry for that evil wish And now I wish her well.

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My old man died in a fine big house. My ma died in a shack. I wonder where I’m gonna die, Being neither white nor black?

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THE JESTER

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In one hand I hold tragedy And in the other Comedy,— Masks for the soul. Laugh with me. You would laugh! Weep with me. You would weep! Tears are my laughter. Laughter is my pain. Cry at my grinning mouth, If you will. Laugh at my sorrow’s reign. I am the Black Jester, The dumb clown of the world, The booted, booted fool of silly men. Once I was wise. Shall I be wise again?

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THE SOUTH

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The lazy, laughing South With blood on its mouth. The sunny-faced South, Beast-strong, Idiot-brained. The child-minded South Scratching in the dead fire’s ashes For a Negro’s bones. Cotton and the moon, Warmth, earth, warmth, The sky, the sun, the stars, The magnolia-scented South. Beautiful, like a woman, Seductive as a dark-eyed whore, Passionate, cruel, Honey-lipped, syphilitic— That is the South. And I, who am black, would love her But she spits in my face. And I, who am black, Would give her many rare gifts But she turns her back upon me. So now I seek the North— The cold-faced North, For she, they say, Is a kinder mistress, And in her house my children May escape the spell of the South.

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AS I GREW OLDER

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It was a long time ago. I have almost forgotten my dream. But it was there then, In front of me, Bright like a sun,— My dream.

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And then the wall rose, Rose slowly, Slowly, Between me and my dream. Rose slowly, slowly, Dimming, Hiding, The light of my dream. Rose until it touched the sky,— The wall.

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Shadow. I am black.

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I lie down in the shadow. No longer the light of my dream before me, Above me. Only the thick wall. Only the shadow.

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My hands! My dark hands! Break through the wall! Find my dream! Help me to shatter this darkness, To smash this night, To break this shadow Into a thousand lights of sun, Into a thousand whirling dreams Of sun!

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AUNT SUE’S STORIES

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Aunt Sue has a head full of stories. Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories. Summer nights on the front porch Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom And tells him stories.

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Black slaves Working in the hot sun, And black slaves Walking in the dewy night, And black slaves Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river Mingle themselves softly In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice, Mingle themselves softly In the dark shadows that cross and recross Aunt Sue’s stories.

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And the dark-faced child, listening, Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories. He knows that Aunt Sue Never got her stories out of any book at all, But that they came Right out of her own life.

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And the dark-faced child is quiet Of a summer night Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.

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POEM

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The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people.

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The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people.

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Beautiful, also, is the sun. Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

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BLACK PIERROT

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A BLACK PIERROT

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I am a black Pierrot: She did not love me, So I crept away into the night And the night was black, too.

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I am a black Pierrot: She did not love me, So I wept until the red dawn Dripped blood over the eastern hills And my heart was bleeding, too.

PG74745.B00181
I am a black Pierrot: She did not love me, So with my once gay-colored soul Shrunken like a balloon without air, I went forth in the morning To seek a new brown love.

PG74745.B00182
HARLEM NIGHT SONG

PG74745.B00183
Come, Let us roam the night together Singing.

PG74745.B00184
I love you.

PG74745.B00185
Across The Harlem roof-tops Moon is shining. Night sky is blue. Stars are great drops Of golden dew. In the cabaret The jazz-band’s playing.

PG74745.B00186
I love you.

PG74745.B00187
Come, Let us roam the night together Singing.

PG74745.B00188
SONGS TO THE DARK VIRGIN

PG74745.B00189
I

PG74745.B00190
Would That I were a jewel, A shattered jewel, That all my shining brilliants Might fall at thy feet, Thou dark one.

PG74745.B00191
II

PG74745.B00192
Would That I were a garment, A shimmering, silken garment, That all my folds Might wrap about thy body, Absorb thy body, Hold and hide thy body, Thou dark one.

PG74745.B00193
III

PG74745.B00194
Would That I were a flame, But one sharp, leaping flame To annihilate thy body, Thou dark one.

PG74745.B00195
ARDELLA

PG74745.B00196
I would liken you To a night without stars Were it not for your eyes. I would liken you To a sleep without dreams Were it not for your songs.

PG74745.B00197
POEM

PG74745.B00198
To the Black Beloved

PG74745.B00199
Ah, My black one, Thou art not beautiful Yet thou hast A loveliness Surpassing beauty.

PG74745.B00200
Oh, My black one, Thou art not good Yet thou hast A purity Surpassing goodness.

PG74745.B00201
Ah, My black one, Thou art not luminous Yet an altar of jewels, An altar of shimmering jewels, Would pale in the light Of thy darkness, Pale in the light Of thy nightness.

PG74745.B00202
WHEN SUE WEARS RED

PG74745.B00203
When Susanna Jones wears red Her face is like an ancient cameo Turned brown by the ages.

PG74745.B00204
Come with a blast of trumpets, Jesus!

PG74745.B00205
When Susanna Jones wears red A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night Walks once again.

PG74745.B00206
Blow trumpets, Jesus!

PG74745.B00207
And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain.

PG74745.B00208
Sweet silver trumpets, Jesus!

PG74745.B00209
PIERROT

PG74745.B00210
I work all day, Said Simple John, Myself a house to buy. I work all day, Said Simple John, But Pierrot wondered why.

PG74745.B00211
For Pierrot loved the long white road, And Pierrot loved the moon, And Pierrot loved a star-filled sky, And the breath of a rose in June.

PG74745.B00212
I have one wife, Said Simple John, And, faith, I love her yet. I have one wife, Said Simple John, But Pierrot left Pierrette.

PG74745.B00213
For Pierrot saw a world of girls, And Pierrot loved each one, And Pierrot thought all maidens fair As flowers in the sun.

PG74745.B00214
Oh, I am good, Said Simple John, The Lord will take me in. Yes, I am good, Said Simple John, But Pierrot’s steeped in sin.

PG74745.B00215
For Pierrot played on a slim guitar, And Pierrot loved the moon, And Pierrot ran down the long white road With the burgher’s wife one June.

PG74745.B00216
♦WATER FRONT STREETS

PG74745.B00217
♦WATER FRONT STREETS

PG74745.B00218
The spring is not so beautiful there,— But dream ships sail away To where the spring is wondrous rare And life is gay.

PG74745.B00219
The spring is not so beautiful there,— But lads put out to sea Who carry beauties in their hearts And dreams, like me.

PG74745.B00220
♦ “WATER-FRONT” replaced with “WATER FRONT”

PG74745.B00221
A FAREWELL

PG74745.B00222
With gypsies and sailors, Wanderers of the hills and seas, I go to seek my fortune. With pious folk and fair I must have a parting. But you will not miss me,— You who live between the hills And have never seen the seas.

PG74745.B00223
LONG TRIP

PG74745.B00224
The sea is a wilderness of waves, A desert of water. We dip and dive, Rise and roll, Hide and are hidden On the sea. Day, night, Night, day, The sea is a desert of waves, A wilderness of water.

PG74745.B00225
PORT TOWN

PG74745.B00226
Hello, sailor boy, In from the sea! Hello, sailor, Come with me!

PG74745.B00227
Come on drink cognac. Rather have wine? Come here, I love you. Come and be mine.

PG74745.B00228
Lights, sailor boy, Warm, white lights. Solid land, kid. Wild, white nights.

PG74745.B00229
Come on, sailor, Out o’ the sea. Let’s go, sweetie! Come with me.

PG74745.B00230
SEA CALM

PG74745.B00231
How still, How strangely still The water is today. It is not good For water To be so still that way.

PG74745.B00232
CARIBBEAN SUNSET

PG74745.B00233
God having a hemorrhage, Blood coughed across the sky, Staining the dark sea red, That is sunset in the Caribbean.

PG74745.B00234
YOUNG SAILOR

PG74745.B00235
He carries His own strength And his own laughter, His own today And his own hereafter,— This strong young sailor Of the wide seas.

PG74745.B00236
What is money for? To spend, he says. And wine? To drink. And women? To love. And today? For joy. And tomorrow? For joy. And the green sea For strength, And the brown land For laughter. And nothing hereafter.

PG74745.B00237
SEASCAPE

PG74745.B00238
Off the coast of Ireland As our ship passed by We saw a line of fishing ships Etched against the sky.

PG74745.B00239
Off the coast of England As we rode the foam We saw an Indian merchantman Coming home.

PG74745.B00240
NATCHA

PG74745.B00241
Natcha, offering love. For ten shillings offering love. Offering: A night with me, honey. A long, sweet night with me. Come, drink palm wine. Come, drink kisses. A long, dream night with me.

PG74745.B00242
SEA CHARM

PG74745.B00243
Sea charm The sea’s own children Do not understand. They know But that the sea is strong Like God’s hand. They know But that sea wind is sweet Like God’s breath, And that the sea holds A wide, deep death.

PG74745.B00244
DEATH OF AN OLD SEAMAN

PG74745.B00245
We buried him high on a windy hill, But his soul went out to sea. I know, for I heard, when all was still, His sea-soul say to me:

PG74745.B00246
Put no tombstone at my head, For here I do not make my bed. Strew no flowers on my grave, I’ve gone back to the wind and wave. Do not, do not weep for me, For I am happy with my sea.

PG74745.B00247
SHADOWS IN THE SUN

PG74745.B00248
BEGGAR BOY

PG74745.B00249
What is there within this beggar lad That I can neither hear nor feel nor see, That I can neither know nor understand And still it calls to me?

PG74745.B00250
Is not he but a shadow in the sun— A bit of clay, brown, ugly, given life? And yet he plays upon his flute a wild free tune As if Fate had not bled him with her knife!

PG74745.B00251
TROUBLED WOMAN

PG74745.B00252
She stands In the quiet darkness, This troubled woman, Bowed by Weariness and pain, Like an Autumn flower In the frozen rain. Like a Wind-blown autumn flower That never lifts its head Again.

PG74745.B00253
SUICIDE’S NOTE

PG74745.B00254
The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.

PG74745.B00255
SICK ROOM

PG74745.B00256
How quiet It is in this sick room Where on the bed A silent woman lies between two lovers— Life and Death, And all three covered with a sheet of pain.

PG74745.B00257
SOLEDAD

PG74745.B00258
A Cuban Portrait

PG74745.B00259
The shadows Of too many nights of love Have fallen beneath your eyes. Your eyes, So full of pain and passion, So full of lies. So full of pain and passion, Soledad, So deeply scarred, So still with silent cries.

PG74745.B00260
TO THE DARK MERCEDES OF “EL PALACIO DE AMOR”

PG74745.B00261
Mercedes is a jungle-lily in a death house. Mercedes is a doomed star. Mercedes is a charnel rose. Go where gold Will fall at the feet of your beauty, Mercedes. Go where they will pay you well For your loveliness.

PG74745.B00262
MEXICAN MARKET WOMAN

PG74745.B00263
This ancient hag Who sits upon the ground Selling her scanty wares Day in, day round, Has known high wind-swept mountains, And the sun has made Her skin so brown.

PG74745.B00264
AFTER MANY SPRINGS

PG74745.B00265
Now, In June, When the night is a vast softness Filled with blue stars, And broken shafts of moon-glimmer Fall upon the earth, Am I too old to see the fairies dance? I cannot find them any more.

PG74745.B00266
YOUNG BRIDE

PG74745.B00267
They say she died,— Although I do not know, They say she died of grief And in the earth-dark arms of Death Sought calm relief, And rest from pain of love In loveless sleep.

PG74745.B00268
THE DREAM KEEPER

PG74745.B00269
Bring me all of your dreams, You dreamers. Bring me all of your Heart melodies That I may wrap them In a blue cloud-cloth Away from the too rough fingers Of the world.

PG74745.B00270
POEM

PG74745.B00271
(To F. S.)

PG74745.B00272
I loved my friend. He went away from me. There’s nothing more to say. The poem ends, Soft as it began,— I loved my friend.

PG74745.B00273
OUR LAND

PG74745.B00274
OUR LAND

PG74745.B00275
Poem for a Decorative Panel

PG74745.B00276
We should have a land of sun, Of gorgeous sun, And a land of fragrant water Where the twilight Is a soft bandanna handkerchief Of rose and gold, And not this land where life is cold.

PG74745.B00277
We should have a land of trees, Of tall thick trees Bowed down with chattering parrots Brilliant as the day, And not this land where birds are grey.

PG74745.B00278
Ah, we should have a land of joy, Of love and joy and wine and song, And not this land where joy is wrong.

PG74745.B00279
Oh, sweet, away! Ah, my beloved one, away!

PG74745.B00280
LAMENT FOR DARK PEOPLES

PG74745.B00281
I was a red man one time, But the white men came. I was a black man, too, But the white men came.

PG74745.B00282
They drove me out of the forest. They took me away from the jungles. I lost my trees. I lost my silver moons.

PG74745.B00283
Now they’ve caged me In the circus of civilization. Now I herd with the many— Caged in the circus of civilization.

PG74745.B00284
AFRAID

PG74745.B00285
We cry among the skyscrapers As our ancestors Cried among the palms in Africa Because we are alone, It is night, And we’re afraid.

PG74745.B00286
POEM

PG74745.B00287
For the portrait of an African boy after the manner of Gauguin

PG74745.B00288
All the tom-toms of the jungles beat in my blood, And all the wild hot moons of the jungles shine in my soul. I am afraid of this civilization— So hard, So strong, So cold.

PG74745.B00289
SUMMER NIGHT

PG74745.B00290
The sounds Of the Harlem night Drop one by one into stillness. The last player-piano is closed. The last victrola ceases with the “Jazz Boy Blues.” The last crying baby sleeps And the night becomes Still as a whispering heartbeat. I toss Without rest in the darkness, Weary as the tired night, My soul Empty as the silence, Empty with a vague, Aching emptiness, Desiring, Needing someone, Something.

PG74745.B00291
I toss without rest In the darkness Until the new dawn, Wan and pale, Descends like a white mist Into the court-yard.

PG74745.B00292
DISILLUSION

PG74745.B00293
I would be simple again, Simple and clean Like the earth, Like the rain, Nor ever know, Dark Harlem, The wild laughter Of your mirth Nor the salt tears Of your pain. Be kind to me, Oh, great dark city. Let me forget. I will not come To you again.

PG74745.B00294
DANSE AFRICAINE

PG74745.B00295
The low beating of the tom-toms, The slow beating of the tom-toms. Low ... slow Slow ... low— Stirs your blood. Dance! A night-veiled girl Whirls softly into a Circle of light. Whirls softly ... slowly, Like a wisp of smoke around the fire— And the tom-toms beat, And the tom-toms beat, And the low beating of the tom-toms Stirs your blood.

PG74745.B00296
THE WHITE ONES

PG74745.B00297
I do not hate you, For your faces are beautiful, too. I do not hate you, Your faces are whirling lights of loveliness and splendor, too. Yet why do you torture me, O, white strong ones, Why do you torture me?

PG74745.B00298
MOTHER TO SON

PG74745.B00299
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I’se been a-cimbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

PG74745.B00300
POEM

PG74745.B00301
We have tomorrow Bright before us Like a flame.

PG74745.B00302
Yesterday A night-gone thing, A sun-down name.

PG74745.B00303
And dawn-today Broad arch above the road we came.

PG74745.B00304
EPILOGUE

PG74745.B00305
I, too, sing America.

PG74745.B00306
I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh, And eat well, And grow strong.

PG74745.B00307
Tomorrow, I’ll sit at the table When company comes. Nobody’ll dare Say to me, “Eat in the kitchen,” Then.

PG74745.B00308
Besides, They’ll see how beautiful I am And be ashamed,—

PG74745.B00309
I, too, am America.

PG74745.B00310
Transcriber’s Notes

PG74745.B00311
1. Differences between the table of contents and the text have been reconciled. Obsolete and alternative spellings have been left unchanged. Grammar has not been altered.

PG74745.B00312
2. Italics font is enclosed in _underscores_.

PG74745.B00313
3. Illustrations are indicated by: [Illustration: caption and/or descriptive text].

PG74745.B00314
4. “Edit Distance” in Corrections table below refers to the Levenshtein Distance.

PG74745.B00315
Corrections

PG74745.B00316
pg(s) Source Correction Edit Distance

PG74745.B00317
TOC 15 9 2 TOC 13 19 1 TOC 50 51 1 43 DREAM VARIATION DREAM VARIATIONS 1 69 WATER-FRONT WATER FRONT 1 71 WATER-FRONT WATER FRONT 1

PG74745.B00318
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