Page:The complete poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.pdf/325

All time seems cold and void,
 And naught but tears remain;
Life's music beats for me
 A melancholy strain.

I used at first to hope,
 But hope is past and gone;
And now without a ray
 My cheerless life drags on.

Like to an ash-stained hearth
 When all its fires are spent;
Like to an autumn wood
 By storm winds rudely shent,—

So sadly goes my heart,
 Unclothed of hope and peace;
It asks not joy again,
 But only seeks release.

 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

(From a Westerner's Point of View.)

No matter what you call it,
 Whether genius, or art,
He sings the simple songs that come
 The closest to your heart.
Fur trim an' skillful phrases,
 I do not keer a jot;
'Tain't the words alone, but feelin's,
 That tech the tender spot.
An' that's jest why I love him,—
 Why, he's got sech human feelin',
An' in ev'ry song he gives us,
 You kin see it creepin', stealin',
Through the core the tears go tricklin',
 But the edge is bright an' smiley;
I never saw a poet
 Like that poet Whitcomb Riley,

His heart keeps beatin' time with our'n
 In measures fast or slow;
He tells us jest the same ol' things
 Our souls have learned to know.
He paints our joys an' sorrers
 In a way so stric'ly true,
That a body can't help knowin'
 That he has felt them too.
If there's a lesson to be taught,
 He never fears to teach it,
An' he puts the food so good an' low
 That the humblest one kin reach it.
Now in our time, when poets rhyme
 For money, fun, or fashion,
'Tis good to hear one voice so clear
 That thrills with honest passion.
So let the others build their songs,
 An' strive to polish highly,—
There's none of them kin tech the heart
 Like our own Whitcomb Riley.

 

A MADRIGAL

Dream days of fond delight and hours
As rosy-hued as dawn, are mine.

[ 287 ]