James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922.
Sandy Star and Willie Gee
S
Count ’em two, you make ’em three:
Pluck the man and boy apart
And you’ll see into my heart.
I
Sculptured Worship
The zones of warmth around his heart,
No alien airs had crossed;
But he awoke one morn to feel
The magic numbness of autumnal frost.
And tangled emotions, vague and dim;
And sacrificing what he loved
He lost the dearest part of him.
His one desire a prisoned ache;
If he can never melt again
His very heart will break.
Laughing It Out
He had a whim and laughed it out
Upon the exit of a chance;
He floundered in a sea of doubt—
If life was real—or just romance.
A little pucker of defiance;
He totalled in a word the sum
Of all man made of facts and science.
A reassuring shrug of shoulder;
And we would from his fancy take
A faith in death which made life bolder.
Exit
No, his exit by the gate
Will not leave the wind ajar;
He will go when it is late
With a misty star.
One will call, he will not hear;
He will take no company
Nor a hope or fear.
They who gave him hate will weep;
But for us the winds will blow
Pulsing through his sleep.
The Way
He could not tell the way he came,
Because his chart was lost
Yet all his way was paved with flame
From the bourne he crossed.
Because he had no map
He followed where the winds blow,—
And the April sap.
The secret that he bore,—
And laughs away the mystery now
The dark’s at his door.
Onus Probandi
No more from out the sunset,
No more across the foam,
No more across the windy hills
Will Sandy Star come home.
With a curse upon his tongue:
And in his hand the staff of life,
Made music as it swung.
And knows the mystery now—
Our Sandy Star who went away,
With the secret on his brow.