James Weldon Johnson, ed. (1871–1938). The Book of American Negro Poetry. 1922.
Welt
W
That daily flaunts its tatters to my eyes,
Would I might compromise awhile with truth
Until our moon now waxing, wanes and dies.
And drain this cup so tantalant and fair
Which meets my parched lips like cooling dew,
Ere time has brushed cold fingers thru my hair!