Their common way the great winds blew,
    The ships sailed out to sea;
  Yet ere that day was spent I knew
    Mine own had come to me.

  As after song some snatch of tune
    Lurks still in grass or bough,
  So, somewhat of the end o’ June
    Lurks in each weather now.

  The young year sets the buds astir,
    The old year strips the trees;
  But ever in my lavender
    I hear the brawling bees.

L.W.  REESE.

Negro Lullaby.

  Bedtimes’ come fu’ little boys,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  Too tiahed out to make a noise,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  You gwine t’ have to-morrer sho’? 
  Yes, you tole me dat, befo’,
  Don’t you fool me, chile, no mo’,
      Po’ little lamb.

  You been bad de livelong day,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  Th’owin’ stones an’ runnin’ ’way,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  My, but you’s a-runnin’ wild,
  Look jes’ lak some po’ folks’ chile;
  Mam’ gwine whup you atter while,
      Po’ little lamb.

  Come hyeah! you mos’ tiahed to def,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  Played yo’se’f clean out o’ bref,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  See dem han’s now,—­sich a sight! 
  Would you ever b’lieve dey’s white! 
  Stan’ still ’twell I wash dem right,
      Po’ little lamb.

  Jes’ caint hol’ yo’ haid up straight,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  Hadn’t oughter played so late,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  Mammy do’ know whut she’d do,
  Ef de chillun’s all lak you;
  You’s a caution now fu’ true,
      Po’ little lamb.

  Lay yo’ haid down in my lap,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  Y’ought to have a right good slap,
      Po’ little lamb. 
  You been runnin’ roun’ a heap. 
  Shet dem eyes an’ don’t you peep,
  Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,
      Po’ little lamb.

P.L.  DUNBAR.

A Woman’s Thought.

  I am a woman—­therefore I may not
  Call to him, cry to him,
  Fly to him,
  Bid him delay not!

  And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: 
  Still as a stone—­
  All silent and cold. 
  If my heart riot—­
  Crush and defy it! 
  Should I grow bold—­
  Say one dear thing to him,
  All my life fling to him,
  Cling to him—­
  What to atone
  Is enough for my sinning! 
  This were the cost to me,
  This were my winning—­
  That he were lost to me. 
  Not as a lover
  At last if he part from me,
  Tearing my heart from me—­
  Hurt beyond cure,—­
  Calm and demure
  Then must I hold me—­
  In myself fold me—­
  Lest he discover;
  Showing no sign to him
  By look of mine to him
  What he has been to me—­
  How my heart turns to him,
  Follows him, yearns to him,
  Prays him to love me.

  Pity me, lean to me,
  Thou God above me!