Bird-song, breeze-wail, chune er moan,
    What puny t’ings dey ’ll be,
  Ef w’en I ‘s seemin’ all erlone,
    I knows yo’ hea’t ’s wid me.

THE COLORED BAND

  Wen de colo’ed ban’ comes ma’chin’ down de street,
  Don’t you people stan’ daih starin’; lif yo’ feet! 
    Ain’t dey playin’?  Hip, hooray! 
    Stir yo’ stumps an’ cleah de way,
  Fu’ de music dat dey mekin’ can’t be beat.

  Oh, de major man’s a-swingin’ of his stick,
  An’ de pickaninnies crowdin’ roun’ him thick;
    In his go’geous uniform,
    He ‘s de lightnin’ of de sto’m,
  An’ de little clouds erroun’ look mighty slick.

  You kin hyeah a fine perfo’mance w’en de white ban’s serenade,
    An’ dey play dey high-toned music mighty sweet,
  But hit ‘s Sousa played in ragtime, an’ hit ’s Rastus on Parade,
    Wen de colo’ed ban’ comes ma’chin’ down de street.

  Wen de colo’ed ban’ comes ma’chin’ down de street
  You kin hyeah de ladies all erroun’ repeat: 
    “Ain’t dey handsome?  Ain’t dey gran’? 
    Ain’t dey splendid?  Goodness, lan’! 
  Wy dey’s pu’fect f’om dey fo’heads to dey feet!”
  An’ sich steppin’ to de music down de line,
  ’T ain’t de music by itself dat meks it fine,
    Hit’s de walkin’, step by step,
    An’ de keepin’ time wid “Hep,”
  Dat it mek a common ditty soun’ divine.

  Oh, de white ban’ play hits music, an’ hit ’s mighty good to hyeah,
  An’ it sometimes leaves a ticklin’ in yo’ feet;
  But de hea’t goes into bus’ness fu’ to he’p erlong de eah,
    Wen de colo’ed ban’ goes ma’chin’ down de street.

TO A VIOLET FOUND ON ALL SAINTS’ DAY

  Belated wanderer of the ways of spring,
    Lost in the chill of grim November rain,
  Would I could read the message that you bring
    And find in it the antidote for pain.

  Does some sad spirit out beyond the day,
    Far looking to the hours forever dead,
  Send you a tender offering to lay
    Upon the grave of us, the living dead?

  Or does some brighter spirit, unforlorn,
    Send you, my little sister of the wood,
  To say to some one on a cloudful morn,
    “Life lives through death, my brother, all is good?”

  With meditative hearts the others go
    The memory of their dead to dress anew. 
  But, sister mine, bide here that I may know,
    Life grows, through death, as beautiful as you.

INSPIRATION

  At the golden gate of song
  Stood I, knocking all day long,
  But the Angel, calm and cold,
  Still refused and bade me, “Hold.”

  Then a breath of soft perfume,
  Then a light within the gloom;
  Thou, Love, camest to my side,
  And the gates flew open wide.

  Long I dwelt in this domain,
  Knew no sorrow, grief, or pain;
  Now you bid me forth and free,
  Will you shut these gates on me?