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He wrote upon his heart
As on the door of some dark ancient house:
Who once lived here has long been dead
As dead as moss-grown stone
Only a ghost inhabits here
One that would be alone
Only a ghost inhabits here
A ghost without desire
Who sits before a shadowed hearth
And warms to a spectral fire. . . . . . .
From Caroling Dusk (Harper & Brothers, 1927), edited by Countee Cullen. This poem is in the public domain.
After all and after all
When the song is sung
And swallowed up in silence
It were more real unsung. . . .
After all and after all
When the lips have stirred
Such a little of the thought
Is transmuted in the word. . . . . .
Softly blow lightly
O twilight breeze
Scarcely bend slightly
O silver trees:
Night glides slowly down hill . . down stream
Bringing a myriad star-twinkling dream. . . . .
Softly blow lightly
O twilight breeze
Scarcely bend slightly
She kneeled before me begging
That I should with a prayer
Give her absolution
(How golden was her hair!)
She begged an absolution
While the moments fled
She thought my tears were pity
(My soul her lips were red!)
She begged of me forgiveness