A briefer length of moon Will mark the sea-line and the yellow dune. Then we may think of this, yet There will be something forgotten And something we should forget. It will be like all things we know: The stone will fail; a rose is sure to go. It will be quiet then and we may stay As long at the picket gate But there will be less to say. LANCELOT The fruit of the orchard is over-ripe, Elaine, And leaves are crisping on the garden wall. Leaves on the garden path are wet and rain Drips from the low shrubs with a steady fall. It is long, so long since I was here, Elaine, Moles have gnawed the rose tree at its root; You did not think that I would come again, Least of all in the day of falling fruit. GETHSEMANE All that night I walked alone and wept. I tore a rose and dropped it on the ground. My heart was lead; all that night I kept Listening to hear a dreadful sound. A tree bent down and dew dripped from its hair. The earth was warm; dawn came solemnly. I stretched full-length upon the grass and there I said your name but silence answered me. A TREE DESIGN A tree is more than a shadow Blurred against the sky, More than ink spilled on the fringe Of white clouds floating by. A tree is more than an April design Or a blighted winter bough Where love and music used to be. A tree is something in me, Very still and lonely now. BLIGHT I have seen a lovely thing Stark before a whip of weather: The tree that was so wistful after spring Beating barren twigs together. The birds that came there one by one, The sensuous leaves that used to sway And whisper there at night, all are gone, Each has vanished in its way. And this whip is on my heart; There is no sound that it allows, No little song that I may start But I hear the beating of dead boughs. THE DAY-BREAKERS We are not come to wage a strife With swords upon this hill. It is not wise to waste the life Against a stubborn will. Yet would we die as some have done: Beating a way for the rising sun. CLOSE YOUR EYES! Go through the gates with closed eyes. Stand erect and let your black face front the west. Drop the axe and leave the timber where it lies; A woodman on the hill must have his rest. Go where leaves are lying brown and wet. Forget her warm arms and her breast who mothered you, And every face you ever loved forget. Close your eyes; walk bravely through. GOD GIVE TO MEN God give the yellow man An easy breeze at blossom time. Grant his eager, slanting eyes to cover Every land and dream Of afterwhile. Give blue-eyed men their swivel chairs To whirl in tall buildings. Allow them many ships at sea, And on land, soldiers And policemen. For black man, God, No need to bother more But only fill afresh his meed Of laughter, His cup of tears. God suffer little men The taste of soul’s desire. HOMING Sweet timber land Where soft winds blow The high green tree And fan away the fog! Ah fragrant stream Where thirsty creatures go And strong black men Hew the heavy log!