The three ghosts on the windless road Spake each to one another, "Whence came that blood upon your hand No other hand may cover?" "From breaking of a woman's heart, Brother, my brother." "Yet on the earth clean men we walked, Glutton and Thief and Lover; White flesh and fair it hid our stains That no man might discover." "Naked the soul goes up to God, Brother, my brother." De Massa ob de Sheepfol'. [Sarah Pratt McLean Greene] De massa ob de sheepfol' Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, Look out in de gloomerin' meadows Whar de long night rain begin -- So he call to de hirelin' shephe'd: "Is my sheep -- is dey all come in?" Oh den, says de hirelin' shephe'd, "Dey's some, dey's black and thin, And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's -- But de res', dey's all brung in. But de res', dey's all brung in." Den de massa ob de sheepfol' Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows Whar de long night rain begin -- So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', Callin' sof': "Come in! Come in!" Callin' sof': "Come in! Come in!" Den up t'ro de gloomerin' meadows, T'ro de col' night rain an' win', An' up t'ro de gloomerin' rain-paf Whar de sleet fa' piercin' thin -- De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol' Dey all comes gadderin' in. De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol', Dey all comes gadderin' in! Black Sheep. [Richard Burton] From their folded mates they wander far, Their ways seem harsh and wild; They follow the beck of a baleful star, Their paths are dream-beguiled. Yet haply they sought but a wider range, Some loftier mountain-slope, And little recked of the country strange Beyond the gates of hope. And haply a bell with a luring call Summoned their feet to tread Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall And the lurking snare are spread. Maybe, in spite of their tameless days Of outcast liberty, They're sick at heart for the homely ways Where their gathered brothers be. And oft at night, when the plains fall dark And the hills loom large and dim, For the Shepherd's voice they mutely hark, And their souls go out to him. Meanwhile, "Black sheep! Black sheep!" we cry, Safe in the inner fold; And maybe they hear, and wonder why, And marvel, out in the cold. Let me no more a Mendicant. [Arthur Colton] Let me no more a mendicant Without the gate Of the world's kingly palace wait; Morning is spent, The sentinels change and challenge in the tower, Now slant the shadows eastward hour by hour. Open the door, O Seneschal! Within I see them sit, The feasters, daring destiny with wit, Casting to win Or lose their utmost, and men hurry by At offices of confluent energy. Let me not here a mendicant Without the gate Linger from dayspring till the night is late, And there are sent All homeless stars to loiter in the sky, And beggared midnight winds to wander by. Lincoln, the Man of the People. [Edwin Markham]