An' I reckon I git jealous, Fu' I laff an' joke an' sco'n, An' I say, "Oh, go on, Sam'l, Des go on, an' blow yo' ho'n." But I know dis comin' Sad'day, Dey 'll be brighter days in life; An' I 'll be ez glad ez Sam'l W'en I go to see my wife. BOOKER T. WASHINGTON The word is writ that he who runs may read. What is the passing breath of earthly fame? But to snatch glory from the hands of blame-- That is to be, to live, to strive indeed. A poor Virginia cabin gave the seed, And from its dark and lowly door there came A peer of princes in the world's acclaim, A master spirit for the nation's need. Strong, silent, purposeful beyond his kind, The mark of rugged force on brow and lip, Straight on he goes, nor turns to look behind Where hot the hounds come baying at his hip; With one idea foremost in his mind, Like the keen prow of some on-forging ship. THE MONK'S WALK In this sombre garden close What has come and passed, who knows? What red passion, what white pain Haunted this dim walk in vain? Underneath the ivied wall, Where the silent shadows fall, Lies the pathway chill and damp Where the world-quit dreamers tramp. Just across, where sunlight burns, Smiling at the mourning ferns, Stand the roses, side by side, Nodding in their useless pride. Ferns and roses, who shall say What you witness day by day? Covert smile or dropping eye, As the monks go pacing by. Has the novice come to-day Here beneath the wall to pray? Has the young monk, lately chidden, Sung his lyric, sweet, forbidden? Tell me, roses, did you note That pale father's throbbing throat? Did you hear him murmur, "Love!" As he kissed a faded glove? Mourning ferns, pray tell me why Shook you with that passing sigh? Is it that you chanced to spy Something in the Abbot's eye? Here no dream, nor thought of sin, Where no worlding enters in; Here no longing, no desire, Heat nor flame of earthly fire. Branches waving green above, Whisper naught of life nor love; Softened winds that seem a breath, Perfumed, bring no fear of death. Is it living thus to live? Has life nothing more to give? Ah, no more of smile or sigh-- Life, the world, and love, good-bye. Gray, and passionless, and dim, Echoing of the solemn hymn, Lies the walk, 'twixt fern and rose, Here within the garden close. LOVE-SONG If Death should claim me for her own to-day, And softly I should falter from your side, Oh, tell me, loved one, would my memory stay, And would my image in your heart abide? Or should I be as some forgotten dream, That lives its little space, then fades entire? Should Time send o'er you its relentless stream, To cool your heart, and quench for aye love's fire?