It may be misery not to sing at all And to go silent through the brimming day. It may be sorrow never to be loved, But deeper griefs than these beset the way. To have come near to sing the perfect song And only by a half-tone lost the key, There is the potent sorrow, there the grief, The pale, sad staring of life's tragedy. To have just missed the perfect love, Not the hot passion of untempered youth, But that which lays aside its vanity And gives thee, for thy trusting worship, truth-- This, this it is to be accursed indeed; For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by the things we have, But by what kept us from the perfect thing. DE WAY T'INGS COME De way t'ings come, hit seems to me, Is des' one monst'ous mystery; De way hit seem to strike a man, Dey ain't no sense, dey ain't no plan; Ef trouble sta'ts a pilin' down, It ain't no use to rage er frown, It ain't no use to strive er pray, Hit's mortal boun' to come dat way. Now, ef you 's hongry, an' yo' plate Des' keep on sayin' to you, "Wait," Don't mek no diffunce how you feel, 'T won't do no good to hunt a meal, Fu' dat ah meal des' boun' to hide Ontwell de devil's satisfied, An' 'twell dey's some'p'n by to cyave You 's got to ease yo'se'f an' sta've. But ef dey 's co'n meal on de she'f You need n't bothah 'roun' yo'se'f, Somebody's boun' to amble in An' 'vite you to dey co'n meal bin; An' ef you 's stuffed up to be froat Wid co'n er middlin', fowl er shoat, Des' look out an' you 'll see fu' sho A 'possum faint befo' yo' do'. De way t'ings happen, huhuh, chile, Dis worl' 's done puzzled me one w'ile; I 's mighty skeered I 'll fall in doubt, I des' won't try to reason out De reason why folks strive an' plan A dinnah fu' a full-fed man, An' shet de do' an' cross de street F'om one dat raaly needs to eat. NOON Shadder in de valley Sunlight on de hill, Sut'ny wish dat locus' Knowed how to be still. Don't de heat already Mek a body hum, 'Dout dat insec' sayin' Hottah days to come? Fiel' 's a shinin' yaller Wid de bendin' grain, Guinea hen a callin', Now's de time fu' rain; Shet yo' mouf, you rascal, Wha' 's de use to cry? You do' see no rain clouds Up dah in de sky. Dis hyeah sweat's been po'in' Down my face sence dawn; Ain't hit time we 's hyeahin' Dat ah dinnah ho'n? Go on, Ben an' Jaspah, Lif yo' feet an' fly, Hit out fu' de shadder Fo' I drap an' die. Hongry, lawd a' mussy, Hongry as a baih, Seems lak I hyeah dinnah Callin' evahwhaih; Daih 's de ho'n a blowin'! Let dat cradle swing, One mo' sweep, den da'kies, Beat me to de spring! AT THE TAVERN A lilt and a swing, And a ditty to sing, Or ever the night grow old; The wine is within, And I 'm sure 't were a sin For a soldier to choose to be cold, my dear, For a soldier to choose to be cold.