Cadence of maiden voices— Their lovers’ blent with these; And of little children singing, As under orchard trees. And often, up from the chaos Of my deepest dreams, I hear Sounds of their phantom laughter Filling the atmosphere: They call to me from the darkness; They cry to me from the gloom, Till I start sometimes from my pillow And peer through the haunted room; When the face of the moon at the window Wears a pallor like my own, And seems to be listening with me To the low, mysterious tone,— The low, mysterious clamor Of voices that seem to be Striving in vain to whisper Of secret things to me;— Of a something dread to be warned of; Of a rapture yet withheld; Or hints of the marvellous beauty Of songs unsyllabled. But ever and ever the meaning Falters and fails and dies, And only the silence quavers With the sorrow of my sighs. And I answer:—O Voices, ye may not Make me to understand Till my own voice, mingling with you, Laughs in the Shadow-land. _A BAREFOOT BOY_ _A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play—_ _For May is here once more, and so is he,—_ _His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee,_ _And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they:_ _Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array_ _Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me_ _Of woody pathways winding endlessly_ _Along the creek, where even yesterday_ _He plunged his shrinking body—gasped and shook—_ _Yet called the water “warm,” with never lack_ _Of joy. And so, half enviously I look_ _Upon this graceless barefoot and his track,—_ _His toe stubbed—ay, his big toe-nail knocked back_ _Like unto the clasp of an old pocket-book._ THE YOUTHFUL PATRIOT O what did the little boy do ’At nobody wanted him to? Didn’t do nothin’ but romp an’ run, An’ whoop an’ holler an’ bang his gun An’ bu’st fire-crackers, an’ ist have fun— An’ _’at’s_ all the little boy done! PONCHUS PILUT Ponchus Pilut _ust_ to be Ist a _Slave_, an’ now he’s _free_. Slaves wuz on’y ist before The War wuz—an’ _ain’t_ no more. He works on our place fer us,— An’ comes here—_sometimes_ he does. He shocks corn an’ shucks it.—An’ He makes hominy “by han’!”— Wunst he bringed us some, one trip, Tied up in a piller-slip: Pa says, when Ma cooked it, “MY! This-here’s gooder’n you _buy_!” Ponchus _pats_ fer me an’ sings; An’ he says _funny_ things! Ponchus calls a dish a “_deesh_”— Yes, an’ _he_ calls fishes “_feesh_”! When Ma want him eat wiv us He says, “’Skuse me—’deed you mus’!— Ponchus know’ good manners, Miss.— He ain’ eat wher’ White-folks is!” ’Lindy takes _his_ dinner out Wher’ he’s workin’—roun’ about.— Wunst he et his dinner spread In our ole wheelborry-bed. _Ponchus Pilut_ says “_’at’s_ not His _right_ name,—an’ done fergot What his _sho’-’nuff_ name is now— An’ don’ matter none _no_how!”