I had no thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet In wistful April days, when lovers mate And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. The thought of violets meant florists' shops, And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; And garish lights, and mincing little fops And cabarets and songs, and deadening wine. So far from sweet real things my thoughts had strayed, I had forgot wide fields, and clear brown streams; The perfect loveliness that God has made,-- Wild violets shy and Heaven-mounting dreams. And now--unwittingly, you've made me dream Of violets, and my soul's forgotten gleam. Charles Bertram Johnson A LITTLE CABIN Des a little cabin Big ernuff fur two. Des awaitin', honey, Cozy fixt fur you; Down dah by de road, Not ve'y far from town, Waitin' fur de missis, When she's ready to come down. Des a little cabin, An' er acre o' groun', Vines agrowin' on it, Fruit trees all aroun', Hollyhawks a-bloomin' In de gyahden plot-- Honey, would you like to Own dat little spot? Make dat little cabin Cheery, clean an' bright, With an' angel in it Like a ray of light? Make dat little palace Somethin' fine an' gran', Make it like an Eden, Fur a lonely man? Des you listen, Honey, While I 'splain it all, How some lady's go'nter Boss dat little hall; Des you take my ban' Dat's de way it's writ, Des you take my heart, Dat's de deed to it. NEGRO POETS Full many lift and sing Their sweet imagining; Not yet the Lyric Seer, The one bard of the throng, With highest gift of song, Breaks on our sentient ear. Not yet the gifted child, With notes enraptured, wild, That storm and throng the heart, To make his rage our own, Our hearts his lyric throne; Hard won by cosmic art. I hear the sad refrain, Of slavery's sorrow-strain; The broken half-lispt speech Of freedom's twilit hour; The greater growing reach Of larger latent power. Here and there a growing note Swells from a conscious throat; Thrilled with a message fraught The pregnant hour is near; We wait our Lyric Seer, By whom our wills are caught. Who makes our cause and wrong The motif of his song; Who sings our racial good, Bestows us honor's place, The cosmic brotherhood Of genius--not of race. Blind Homer, Greek or Jew, Of fame's immortal few Would still be deathless born; Frail Dunbar, black or white, In Fame's eternal light, Would shine a Star of Morn. An unhorizoned range, Our hour of doubt and change, Gives song a nightless day, Whose pen with pregnant mirth Will give our longings birth, And point our souls the way? Otto Leland Bohanan THE DAWN'S AWAKE! The Dawn's awake! A flash of smoldering flame and fire Ignites the East. Then, higher, higher, O'er all the sky so gray, forlorn, The torch of gold is borne. The Dawn's awake! The dawn of a thousand dreams and thrills. And music singing in the hills A paean of eternal spring Voices the new awakening.